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by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


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donor 


BOOKS    BY   A.   E.   W.    MASON 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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THE   FOUR  CORNERS 
OF  THE  WORLD 


BY 


A.  E.  W.  MASON 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK      ::      ::      ::      1917 


COPTRIOHT,    1917,    BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October.  191! 


COPYRIGHT,  i90».  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  co. 
COPYRIGHT,  IMW.  i»io,  mi,  i»n,  BY  A.  E.  w.  MASON 

COPYRIGHT,  1914,  191i,  1»17,  BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  CO. 


CONTENTS 

1>AGE 

THE  CLOCK 1 

GREEN  PAINT 35 

NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN  ....  97 

ONE  OF  THEM 125 

RAYMOND  BYATT 149 

THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 175 

THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 203 

THE  BROWN  BOOK 245 

THE  REFUGE 269 

PEIFFER 301 

THE  EBONY  Box 325 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL      .     .     .  363 

UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL    .     .                     ....  441 


THE   CLOCK 


THE  CLOCK 


Mr.  Twiss  was  a  great  walker,  and  it  was  his  habit, 
after  his  day's  work  was  done,  to  walk  from  his  pleasant 
office  in  the  Adelphi  to  his  home  at  Hampstead.  On 
an  afternoon  he  was  detained  to  a  later  hour  than 
usual  by  one  of  his  clients,  a  Captain  Brayton,  over 
some  matter  of  a  mortgage.  Mr.  Twiss  looked  at  his 
office  clock. 

"You  are  going  west,  I  suppose?"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  if  you  would  walk  with  me  as  far  as  Piccadilly  ? 
It  will  not  be  very  much  out  of  your  way,  and  I  have 
a  reason  for  wishing  your  company." 

"By  all  means,"  replied  Captain  Brayton,  and  the 
two  men  set  forth. 

Mr.  Twiss,  however,  seemed  in  a  difficulty  as  to 
how  he  should  broach  his  subject,  and  for  a  while  the 
pair  walked  in  silence.  They,  indeed,  reached  Pall 
Mall,  and  were  walking  down  that  broad  thorough- 
fare, before  a  word  of  any  importance  was  uttered. 
And  even  then  it  was  chance  which  furnished  the  oc- 
casion. A  young  man  of  Captain  Brayton's  age  came 
down  from  the  steps  of  a  club  and  walked  towards 
them.  As  he  passed  beneath  a  street  lamp,  Mr.  Twiss 

3 


THE  CLOCK 

noticed  his  face,  and  ever  so  slightly  started  with  sur- 
prise. At  almost  the  same  moment,  the  young  man 
swerved  across  the  road  at  a  run,  as  though  suddenly 
he  remembered  a  very  pressing  appointment.  The 
two  men  walked  on  again  for  a  few  paces,  and  then 
Captain  Brayton  observed:  "There  is  a  screw  loose 
there,  I  am  afraid." 

Mr.  Twiss  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,"  he  replied.  "It 
was,  indeed,  about  Archie  Cranfield  that  I  was  anxious 
to  speak  to  you.  I  promised  his  father  that  I  would 
be  something  more  than  Archie's  mere  man  of  affairs, 
if  I  were  allowed,  and  I  confess  that  I  am  troubled 
by  him.  You  know  him  well  ?  " 

Captain  Brayton  nodded  his  head. 

"Perhaps  I  should  say  that  I  did  know  him  well," 
he  returned.  "  We  were  at  the  same  school,  we  passed 
through  Chatham  together,  but  since  he  has  re- 
linquished actual  service  we  have  seen  very  little  of 
one  another."  Here  he  hesitated,  but  eventually 
made  up  his  mind  to  continue  in  a  guarded  fashion. 
"Also,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  there  has  been  cause 
for  disagreement.  We  quarrelled." 

Mr.  Twiss  was  disappointed.  "Then  you  can  tell 
me  nothing  of  him  recently?"  he  asked,  and  Captain 
Brayton  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Nothing  but  what  all  the  little  world  of  his  ac- 
quaintances already  knows.  He  has  grown  solitary, 

.4 


THE  CLOCK 

forbidding  in  his  manner,  and,  what  is  most  notice- 
able, sly — extraordinarily  sly.  While  he  is  speaking 
with  you,  he  will  smile  at  some  secret  thought  of  his; 
the  affairs  of  the  world  have  lost  their  interest  for 
him;  he  hardly  listens  and  seldom  speaks.  He  is 
concerned  with  some  private  matter,  and  he  hides  it 
cunningly.  That  is  the  character,  at  all  events,  which 
his  friends  give  of  him." 

They  had  now  reached  the  corner  of  St.  James's 
Street,  and  as  they  turned  up  the  hill,  Mr.  Twiss  took 
up  the  tale. 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  what  you  tell  me.  It  is  a 
great  pity,  for  we  both  remember  him  ambitious  and 
a  good  soldier.  I  am  inclined  to  blame  the  house  in 
the  country  for  the  change  in  him." 

Captain  Brayton,  however,  did  not  agree. 

"It  goes  deeper  than  that,"  he  said.  "Men  who 
live  alone  in  the  country  may  show  furtive  ways  in 
towns,  no  doubt.  But  why  does  he  live  alone  in  the 
country?  No,  that  will  not  do";  and  at  the  top  of 
St.  James's  Street  the  two  men  parted. 

Mr.  Twiss  walked  up  Bond  Street,  and  the  memory 
of  that  house  in  the  country  in  which  Archie  Cran- 
field  chose  to  bury  himself  kept  him  company.  Mr. 
Twiss  had  travelled  down  into  the  eastern  counties 
to  see  it  for  himself  one  Saturday  afternoon  when 
Cranfield  was  away  from  home,  and  a  walk  of  six 
miles  from  the  station  had  taken  him  to  its  door.  It 

5 


THE  CLOCK 

stood  upon  the  borders  of  Essex  and  Suffolk,  a  small 
Elizabethan  house  backed  upon  the  Stour,  a  place 
of  black  beams  and  low  ceilings  and  great  fireplaces. 
It  had  been  buttressed  behind,  where  the  ground  ran 
down  to  the  river-bank,  and  hardly  a  window  was  on 
a  level  with  its  neighbour.  A  picturesque  place  enough, 
but  Mr.  Twiss  was  a  lover  of  towns  and  of  paved  foot- 
ways and  illuminated  streets.  He  imagined  it  on 
such  an  evening  as  this,  dark,  and  the  rain  dripping 
cheerlessly  from  the  trees.  He  imagined  its  inmate 
crouching  over  the  fire  with  his  sly  smile  upon  his 
face,  and  of  a  sudden  the  picture  took  on  a  sinister 
look,  and  a  strong  sense  of  discomfort  made  Mr.  Twiss 
cast  an  uneasy  glance  behind  him.  He  had  in  his 
pocket  a  letter  of  instructions  from  Archie  Cranfield, 
bidding  him  buy  the  house  outright  with  its  furniture, 
since  it  had  now  all  come  into  the  market. 

It  was  a  week  after  this  when  next  Captain  Bray- 
ton  came  to  Mr.  Twiss's  office,  and,  their  business 
done,  he  spoke  of  his  own  accord  of  Archie  Cranfield. 

"I  am  going  to  stay  with  him,"  he  said.  "He  wrote 
to  me  on  the  night  of  the  day  when  we  passed  him  in 
Pall  Mall.  He  told  me  that  he  would  make  up  a  small 
bachelor  party.  I  am  very  glad,  for,  to  tell  the  truth, 
our  quarrel  was  a  sufficiently  serious  one,  and  here, 
it  seems,  is  the  end  to  it." 

Mr.  Twiss  was  delighted,  and  shook  his  client 
warmly  by  the  hand. 

6 


THE  CLOCK 

"You  shall  bring  me  news  of  Archie  Cranfield," 
he  said — "better  news  than  I  have,"  he  added,  with 
a  sudden  gravity  upon  his  face.  For  in  making  the 
arrangements  for  the  purchase  of  the  house,  he  had 
come  into  contact  with  various  neighbours  of  Archie 
Cranfield,  and  from  all  of  them  he  had  had  but  one 
report.  Cranfield  had  a  bad  name  in  those  parts. 
There  were  no  particular  facts  given  to  account  for 
his  reputation.  It  was  all  elusive  and  vague,  an  im- 
pression conveyed  by  Archie  Cranfield  himself,  by 
something  strange  and  sly  in  his  demeanour.  He 
would  sit  chuckling  in  a  sort  of  triumph,  to  which  no 
one  had  the  clue,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  he  fell  into 
deep  silences  like  a  man  with  a  trouble  on  his  mind. 

"Be  sure  you  come  to  see  me  when  you  return," 
said  Mr.  Twiss,  and  Captain  Brayton  replied  heartily: 
"Surely  I  will."  But  he  never  did.  For  in  a  few  days 
the  newspapers  were  busy  with  the  strange  enigma 
of  his  death. 

II 

The  first  hint  of  this  enigma  was  conveyed  to  Mr. 
Twiss  late  one  night  at  his  private  address.  It  came 
in  the  shape  of  a  telegram  from  Archie  Cranfield, 
which  seemed  to  the  agitated  solicitor  rather  a  cry  of 
distress  than  a  message  sent  across  the  wires. 

"Come  at  once.  I  am  in  terrible  need. — Cran- 
field." 

7 


THE  CLOCK 

There  were  no  trains  at  so  late  an  hour  by  which 
Mr.  Twiss  could  reach  his  client;  he  must  needs  wait 
until  the  morning.  He  travelled,  however,  by  the 
first  train  from  Liverpool  Street.  Although  the  news- 
papers were  set  out  upon  the  bookstall,  not  one  of 
them  contained  a  word  of  anything  amiss  at  Archie 
Cranfield's  house,  and  Mr.  Twiss  began  to  breathe 
more  freely.  It  was  too  early  for  a  cab  to  be  in  wait- 
ing at  the  station,  and  Mr.  Twiss  set  out  to  walk  the 
six  miles.  It  was  a  fine,  clear  morning  of  November; 
but  for  the  want  of  leaves  and  birds,  and  the  dull  look 
of  the  countryside,  Mr.  Twiss  might  have  believed 
the  season  to  be  June.  His  spirits  rose  as  he  walked, 
his  blood  warmed  to  a  comfortable  glow,  and  by  the 
time  he  came  to  the  gates  of  the  house,  Cranfield's 
summons  had  become  a  trifling  thing.  As  he  walked 
up  to  the  door,  however,  his  mood  changed,  for  every 
blind  in  the  house  was  drawn.  The  door  was  opened 
before  he  could  touch  the  bell,  and  it  was  opened  by 
Cranfield  himself.  His  face  was  pale  and  disordered, 
his  manner  that  of  a  man  at  his  wits'  end. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Mr.  Twiss  as  he 
entered  the  hall. 

"A  terrible  thing!"  replied  Cranfield.  "It's  Bray- 
ton.  Have  you  breakfasted?  I  suppose  not.  Come, 
and  I  will  tell  you  while  you  eat." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  while  Mr.  Twiss 
ate  his  breakfast,  and  gradually,  by  question  and  by 

8 


THE  CLOCK 

answer,  the  story  took  shape.  Corroboration  was 
easy  and  was  secured.  There  was  no  real  dispute 
about  the  facts;  they  were  simple  and  clear. 

There  were  two  other  visitors  in  the  house  besides 
Captain  Brayton,  one  a  barrister  named  Henry  Chal- 
mers, and  the  second,  William  Linfield,  a  man  about 
town  as  the  phrase  goes.  Both  men  stood  in  much 
the  same  relationship  to  Archie  Cranfield  as  Captain 
Brayton  did — that  is  to  say,  they  were  old  friends 
who  had  seen  little  of  their  host  of  late,  and  were 
somewhat  surprised  to  receive  his  invitation  after  so 
long  an  interval.  They  had  accepted  it  in  the  same 
spirit  as  Brayton,  and  the  three  men  arrived  together 
on  Wednesday  evening.  On  Thursday  the  party  of 
four  shot  over  some  turnip  fields  and  a  few  clumps  of 
wood  which  belonged  to  the  house,  and  played  a  game 
of  bridge  in  the  evening.  In  the  opinion  of  all,  Bray- 
ton was  never  in  better  spirits.  On  Friday  the  four 
men  shot  again  and  returned  to  the  house  as  darkness 
was  coming  on.  They  took  tea  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  after  tea  Brayton  declared  his  intention  to  write 
some  letters  before  dinner.  He  went  upstairs  to  his 
room  for  that  purpose. 

The  other  three  men  remained  in  the  smoking- 
room.  Of  that  there  was  no  doubt.  Both  Chalmers 
and  Linfield  were  emphatic  upon  the  point.  Chal- 
mers, in  particular,  said: 

"We  sat  talking  on  a  well-worn  theme,  I  in  a  chair 
9 


THE  CLOCK 

on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  Archie  Cranfield  in  an- 
other opposite  to  me,  and  Linfield  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  billiard-table  between  us.  How  the  subject 
cropped  up  I  cannot  remember,  but  I  found  myself 
arguing  that  most  men  hid  their  real  selves  all  their 
lives  even  from  their  most  intimate  friends,  that  there 
were  secret  chambers  in  a  man's  consciousness  wherein 
he  lived  a  different  life  from  that  which  the  world  saw 
and  knew,  and  that  it  was  only  by  some  rare  mistake 
the  portals  of  that  chamber  were  ever  passed  by  any 
other  man.  Linfield  would  not  hear  of  it.  If  this 
hidden  man  were  the  real  man,  he  held,  in  some  way 
or  another  the  reality  would  triumph,  and  some  vague 
suspicion  of  the  truth  would  in  the  end  be  felt  by  all 
his  intimates.  I  upheld  my  view  by  instances  from 
the  courts  of  law,  Linfield  his  by  the  aid  of  a  generous 
imagination,  while  Cranfield  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us  with  his  sly,  mocking  smile.  I  turned  to 
him,  indeed,  in  some  heat. 

'Well,  since  you  appear  to  know,  Cranfield,  tell 
me  which  of  us  is  right,'  and  his  pipe  fell  from  his 
fingers  and  broke  upon  the  hearth.  He  stood  up, 
with  his  face  grown  white  and  his  lips  drawn  back 
from  his  teeth  in  a  kind  of  snarl. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?'  he  asked;  and 
before  I  could  answer,  the  door  was  thrown  violently 
open,  and  Cranfield's  man-servant  burst  into  the 
room.  He  mastered  himself  enough  to  say: 

10 


THE  CLOCK 

"  '  May  I  speak  to  you,  sir  ? ' 

"Cranfield  went  outside  the  door  with  him.  He 
could  not  have  moved  six  paces  from  the  door,  for 
though  he  closed  it  behind  him,  we  heard  the  sound 
of  his  voice  and  of  his  servant's  speaking  in  low  tones. 
Moreover,  there  was  no  appreciable  moment  of  time 
between  the  cessation  of  the  voices  and  Cranfield 's 
reappearance  in  the  room.  He  came  back  to  the  fire- 
place and  said  very  quietly: 

"  '  I  have  something  terrible  to  tell  you.  Bray  ton 
has  shot  himself/ 

"He  then  glanced  from  Linn* eld's  face  to  mine,  and 
sat  down  in  a  chair  heavily.  Then  he  crouched  over 
the  fire  shivering.  Both  Linfield  and  myself  were 
too  shocked  by  the  news  to  say  a  word  for  a  moment 
or  two.  Then  Linfield  asked: 

"' But  is  he  dead?' 

"'Humphreys  says  so,'  Cranfield  returned.  'I 
have  telephoned  to  the  police  and  to  the  doctor.' 

"  'But  we  had  better  go  upstairs  ourselves  and  see,' 
said  I.  And  we  did." 

Thus  Chalmers.  Humphreys,  the  man-servant, 
gave  the  following  account: 

"The  bell  rang  from  Captain  Brayton's  room  at 
half-past  five.  I  answered  it  at  once  myself,  and  Cap- 
tain Brayton  asked  me  at  what  hour  the  post  left. 
I  replied  that  we  sent  the  letters  from  the  house  to 
the  post-office  in  the  village  at  six.  He  then  asked 

11 


THE  CLOCK 

me  to  return  at  that  hour  and  fetch  those  of  his  which 
would  be  ready.  I  returned  precisely  at  six,  and  I 
saw  Captain  Brayton  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the  rug 
in  front  of  the  fire.  He  was  dead,  and  he  held  a  re- 
volver tightly  clenched  in  his  hand.  As  I  stepped 
over  him,  I  smelt  that  something  was  burning.  He 
had  shot  himself  through  the  heart,  and  his  clothes 
were  singed,  as  if  he  had  held  the  revolver  close  to 
his  side." 

These  stories  were  repeated  at  the  inquest,  and  at 
this  particular  point  hi  Humphreys'  evidence  the 
coroner  asked  a  question: 

"Did  you  recognise  the  revolver?" 

"Not  until  Captain  Brayton's  hand  was  un- 
clenched." 

"But  then  you  did?" 

"Yes,"  said  Humphreys. 

The  coroner  pointed  to  the  table  on  which  a  re- 
volver lay. 

"Is  that  the  weapon?" 

Humphreys  took  it  up  and  looked  at  the  handle, 
on  which  two  initials  were  engraved — "A.  C." 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "I  recognised  it  as  Mr. 
Cranfield's.  He  kept  it  in  a  drawer  by  his  bedside." 

No  revolver  was  found  amongst  Captain  Brayton's 
possessions. 

It  became  clear  that,  while  the  three  men  were 
talking  in  the  billiard-room,  Captain  Brayton  had 

12 


THE  CLOCK 

gone  to  Cranfield's  room,  taken  his  revolver,  and 
killed  himself  with  it.  No  evidence,  however,  was 
produced  which  supplied  a  reason  for  Brayton's  suicide. 
His  affairs  were  in  good  order,  his  means  sufficient, 
his  prospects  of  advancement  in  his  career  sound. 
Nor  was  there  a  suggestion  of  any  private  unhappiness. 
The  tragedy,  therefore,  was  entered  in  that  list  of 
mysteries  which  are  held  insoluble. 

"I  might,"  said  Chalmers,  "perhaps  resume  the 
argument  which  Humphreys  interrupted  in  the  bil- 
liard-room, with  a  better  instance  than  any  which 
I  induced — the  instance  of  Captain  Brayton." 


Ill 


"You  won't  go?"  Archie  Cranfield  pleaded  with 
Mr.  Twiss.  "Linfield  and  Chalmers  leave  to-day. 
If  you  go  too,  I  shall  be  entirely  alone." 

"But  why  should  you  stay?"  the  lawyer  returned. 
"Surely  you  hardly  propose  to  remain  through  the 
winter  in  this  house?" 

"No,  but  I  must  stay  on  for  a  few  days;  I  have  to 
make  arrangements  before  I  can  go,"  said  Cranfield; 
and  seeing  that  he  was  in  earnest  in  his  intention  to 
go,  Mr.  Twiss  was  persuaded.  He  stayed  on,  and 
recognised,  in  consequence,  that  the  death  of  Captain 
Brayton  had  amongst  its  consequences  one  which  he 
had  not  expected.  The  feeling  in  the  neighbourhood 

13 


THE  CLOCK 

changed  towards  Archie  Cranfield.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  he  became  popular — he  wore  too  sad  and  joyless 
an  air — but  sympathy  was  shown  to  him  in  many 
acts  of  courtesy  and  in  a  greater  charity  of  lan- 
guage. 

A  retired  admiral,  of  a  strong  political  complexion, 
who  had  been  one  of  the  foremost  to  dislike  Archie 
Cranfield,  called,  indeed,  to  offer  his  condolences. 
Archie  Cranfield  did  not  see  him,  but  Mr.  Twiss  walked 
down  the  drive  with  him  to  the  gate. 

"It's  hard  on  Cranfield,"  said  the  admiral.  "We 
all  admit  it.  It  wasn't  fair  of  Brayton  to  take  his 
host's  revolver.  But  for  the  accident  that  Cranfield 
was  in  the  billiard-room  with  Linfield  and  Chalmers, 
the  affair  might  have  taken  on  quite  an  ugly  look. 
We  all  feel  that  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  we  shall 
make  it  up  to  Cranfield.  Just  tell  him  that,  Mr.  Twiss, 
if  you  will." 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  all,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Mr. 
Twiss,  "but  I  think  Cranfield  will  not  continue  to 
live  here.  The  death  of  Captain  Brayton  has  been 
too  much  of  a  shock  for  him." 

Mr.  Twiss  said  "Good-bye"  to  the  admiral  at  the 
gate,  and  returned  to  the  house.  He  was  not  easy 
in  his  mind,  and  as  he  walked  round  the  lawn  under 
the  great  trees,  he  cried  to  himself: 

"It  is  lucky,  indeed,  that  Archie  Cranfield  was  in 
the  billiard-room  with  Linfield  and  Chalmers;  other- 

14 


THE  CLOCK 

wise,  Heaven  knows  what  I  might  have  been  brought 
to  believe  myself." 

The  two  men  had  quarrelled;  Bray  ton  himself  had 
imparted  that  piece  of  knowledge  to  Mr.  Twiss.  Then 
there  was  the  queer  change  in  Archie  Cranfield's  char- 
acter, which  had  made  for  him  enemies  of  strangers, 
and  strangers  of  his  friends — the  slyness,  the  love  of 
solitude,  the  indifference  to  the  world,  the  furtive  smile 
as  of  a  man  conscious  of  secret  powers,  the  whole  in- 
describable uncanniness  of  him.  Mr.  Twiss  marshalled 
his  impressions  and  stopped  in  the  avenue. 

"I  should  have  had  no  just  grounds  for  any  sus- 
picion," he  concluded,  "but  I  cannot  say  that  I  should 
not  have  suspected,"  and  slowly  he  went  on  to  the 
door. 

He  walked  through  the  house  into  the  billiard- 
room,  and  so  became  the  witness  of  an  incident  which 
caused  him  an  extraordinary  disquiet.  The  room 
was  empty.  Mr.  Twiss  lit  his  pipe  and  took  down  a 
book  from  one  of  the  shelves.  A  bright  fire  glowed 
upon  the  hearth,  and  drawing  up  a  chair  to  the  fender, 
he  settled  down  to  read.  But  the  day  was  dull,  and 
the  fireplace  stood  at  the  dark  end  of  the  room.  Mr. 
Twiss  carried  his  book  over  to  the  window,  which 
was  a  bay  window  with  a  broad  seat.  Now,  the  cur- 
tains were  hung  at  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  so 
that,  when  they  were  drawn,  they  shut  the  bay  off 
altogether  from  the  room,  and  when  they  were  open, 

15 


THE  CLOCK 

as  now,  they  still  concealed  the  corners  of  the  window- 
seats.  It  was  in  one  of  these  corners  that  Mr.  Twiss 
took  his  seat,  and  there  he  read  quietly  for  the  space 
of  five  minutes. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  he  heard  the  latch  of  the 
door  click,  and  looking  out  from  his  position  behind 
the  curtain,  he  saw  the  door  slowly  open.  Archie 
Cranfield  came  through  the  doorway  into  the  room, 
and  shut  the  door  behind  him.  Then  he  stood  for  a 
while  by  the  door,  very  still,  but  breathing  heavily. 
Mr.  Twiss  was  on  the  point  of  coming  forward  and 
announcing  his  presence,  but  there  was  something 
so  strange  and  secret  in  Cranfield's  behaviour  thatj 
in  spite  of  certain  twinges  of  conscience,  he  remained 
hidden  in  his  seat.  He  did  more  than  remain  hidden. 
He  made  a  chink  between  the  curtain  and  the  wall, 
and  watched.  He  saw  Cranfield  move  swiftly  over 
to  the  fireplace,  seize  a  little  old-fashioned  clock  in  a 
case  of  satinwood  which  stood  upon  the  mantelshelf, 
raise  it  in  the  air,  and  dash  it  with  an  ungovernable 
fury  on  to  the  stone  hearth.  Having  done  this  unac- 
countable thing,  Cranfield  dropped  into  the  chair 
which  Mr.  Twiss  had  drawn  up.  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  and  suddenly  began  to  sob  and  wail 
in  the  most  dreadful  fashion,  rocking  his  body  from 
side  to  side  in  a  very  paroxysm  of  grief.  Mr.  Twiss 
was  at  his  wits'  end  to  know  what  to  do.  He  felt  that 
to  catch  a  man  sobbing  would  be  to  earn  his  undying 

16 


THE  CLOCK 

resentment.  Yet  the  sound  was  so  horrible,  and  pro- 
duced in  him  so  sharp  a  discomfort  and  distress,  that, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  could  hardly  keep  still.  The 
paroxysm  passed,  however,  almost  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come,  and  Cranfield,  springing  to  his  feet,  rang 
the  bell.  Humphreys  answered  it. 

"I  have  knocked  the  clock  off  the  mantelshelf  with 
my  elbow,  Humphreys,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid  that 
it  is  broken,  and  the  glass  might  cut  somebody's  hand. 
Would  you  mind  clearing  the  pieces  away?" 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Humphreys  went  off 
for  a  dustpan.  Mr.  Twiss  was  able  to  escape  from 
the  billiard-room  unnoticed.  But  it  was  a  long  time 
before  he  recovered  from  the  uneasiness  which  the 
incident  aroused  hi  him. 

Four  days  later  the  two  men  left  the  house  together. 
The  servants  had  been  paid  off.  Humphreys  had 
gone  with  the  luggage  to  London  by  an  earlier  train. 
Mr.  Twiss  and  Archie  Cranfield  were  the  last  to  go. 
Cranfield  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  front  door 
as  they  stood  upon  the  steps. 

"I  shall  never  see  the  inside  of  that  house  again," 
he  said  with  a  gusty  violence. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  get  rid  of  it  for  you?"  asked 
Mr.  Twiss;  and  for  a  moment  Cranfield  looked  at 
him  with  knotted  brows,  blowing  the  while  into  the 
wards  of  the  key. 

"No,"  he  said  at  length,  and,  running  down  to  the 
17 


THE  CLOCK 

stream  at  the  back  of  the  house,  he  tossed  the  key 
into  the  water.  "No,"  he  repeated  sharply;  "let 
the  house  rot  empty  as  it  stands.  The  rats  shall  have 
their  will  of  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  gate,  with  Mr.  Twiss  at 
his  heels,  and  as  they  covered  the  six  miles  to  the  rail- 
way station,  very  little  was  said  between  them. 


IV 


Time  ran  on,  and  Mr.  Twiss  was  a  busy  man.  The 
old  house  by  the  Stour  began  to  vanish  from  his 
memory  amongst  the  mists  and  the  veils  of  rain  which 
so  often  enshrouded  it.  Even  the  enigma  of  Captain 
Brayton's  death  was  ceasing  to  perplex  him,  when 
the  whole  affair  was  revived  in  the  most  startling 
fashion.  A  labourer,  making  a  short  cut  to  his  work 
one  summer  morning,  passed  through  the  grounds  of 
Cranfield's  closed  and  shuttered  house.  His  way  led 
him  round  the  back  of  the  building,  and  as  he  came 
to  that  corner  where  the  great  brick  buttresses  kept 
the  house  from  slipping  down  into  the  river,  he  saw 
below  him,  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  a  man  sleeping. 
The  man's  back  was  turned  towards  him;  he  was 
lying  half  upon  his  side,  half  upon  his  face.  The 
labourer,  wondering  who  it  was,  went  down  to  the 
river-bank,  and  the  first  thing  he  noticed  was  a  re- 
volver lying  upon  the  grass,  its  black  barrel  and  handle 

18 


THE  CLOCK 

shining  in  the  morning  sunlight.  The  labourer  turned 
the  sleeper  over  on  his  back.  There  was  some  blood 
upon  the  left  breast  of  his  waistcoat.  The  sleeper 
was  dead,  and  from  the  rigidity  of  the  body  had  been 
dead  for  some  hours.  The  labourer  ran  back  to  the 
village  with  the  astounding  news  that  he  had  found 
Mr.  Cranfield  shot  through  the  heart  at  the  back  of 
his  own  empty  house.  People  at  first  jumped  nat- 
urally to  the  belief  that  murder  had  been  done.  The 
more  judicious,  however,  shook  their  heads.  Not  a 
door  nor  a  window  was  open  in  the  house.  When  the 
locks  were  forced,  it  was  seen  that  the  dust  lay  deep 
on  floor  and  chair  and  table,  and  nowhere  was  there 
any  mark  of  a  hand  or  a  foot.  Outside  the  house, 
too,  in  the  long  neglected  grass,  there  were  but  two 
sets  of  footsteps  visible,  one  set  leading  round  the 
house — the  marks  made  by  the  labourer  on  his  way 
to  his  work — the  other  set  leading  directly  to  the  spot 
where  Archie  Cranfield's  body  was  found  lying. 
Rumours,  each  contradicting  the  other,  flew  from 
cottage  to  cottage,  and  the  men  gathered  about  the 
police-station  and  in  the  street  waiting  for  the  next. 
In  an  hour  or  two,  however,  the  mystery  was  at  an 
end.  It  leaked  out  that  upon  Archie  Cranfield's  body 
a  paper  had  been  discovered,  signed  in  his  hand  and 
by  his  name,  with  these  words: 

"I  have  shot  myself  with  the  same  revolver  with 
which  I  murdered  Captain  Brayton." 

19 


THE  CLOCK 

The  statement  created  some  stir  when  it  was  read 
out  in  the  billiard-room,  where  the  coroner  held  his 
inquest.  But  the  coroner  who  presided  now  was  the 
man  who  had  held  the  court  when  Captain  Brayton 
had  been  shot.  He  was  quite  clear  in  his  recollection 
of  that  case. 

"Mr.  Cranfield's  alibi  on  that  occasion,"  he  said, 
"was  incontrovertible.  Mr.  Cranfield  was  with  two 
friend's  hi  this  very  room  when  Captain  Brayton  shot 
himself  in  his  bedroom.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
that."  And  under  his  direction  the  jury  returned  a 
verdict  of  "Suicide  while  of  unsound  mind." 

Mr.  Twiss  attended  the  inquest  and  the  funeral. 
But  though  he  welcomed  the  verdict,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  mind  he  was  uneasy.  He  remembered  vividly 
that  extraordinary  moment  when  he  had  seen  Cran- 
field creep  into  the  billiard-room,  lift  the  little  clock 
in  its  case  of  satinwood  high  above  his  head,  and  dash 
it  down  upon  the  hearth  in  a  wild  gust  of  fury.  He 
recollected  how  the  fury  had  given  way  to  despair 
— if  it  were  despair  and  not  remorse.  He  saw  again 
Archie  Cranfield  dropping  into  the  chair,  holding  his 
head  and  rocking  his  body  in  a  paroxysm  of  sobs.  The 
sound  of  his  wailing  rang  horribly  once  more  in  the 
ears  of  Mr.  Twiss.  He  was  not  satisfied. 

"What  should  take  Cranfield  back  to  that  deserted 
house,  there  to  end  his  life,  if  not  remorse,"  he  asked 
himself — "remorse  for  some  evil  done  there"? 

20 


THE  CLOCK 

Over  that  question  for  some  days  he  shook  his  head, 
finding  it  waiting  for  him  at  his  fireside  and  lurking 
for  him  at  the  corner  of  the  roads,  as  he  took  his  daily 
walk  between  Hampstead  and  his  office.  It  began  to 
poison  his  life,  a  life  of  sane  and  customary  ways,  with 
eerie  suggestions.  There  was  an  oppression  upon  his 
heart  of  which  he  could  not  rid  it.  On  the  outskirts 
of  his  pleasant  world  dim  horrors  loomed;  he  seemed 
to  walk  upon  a  frail  crust,  fearful  of  what  lay  be- 
neath. The  sly  smile,  the  furtive  triumph,  the  ap- 
parent consciousness  of  secret  power — did  they  point 
to  some  corruption  of  the  soul  in  Cranfield,  of  which 
none  knew  but  he  himself? 

"At  all  events,  he  paid  for  it,"  Mr.  Twiss  would 
insist,  and  from  that  reflection  drew,  after  all,  but 
little  comfort.  The  riddle  began  even  to  invade  his 
business  hours,  and  take  a  seat  within  his  private 
office,  silently  clamouring  for  his  attention.  So  that 
it  was  with  a  veritable  relief  that  he  heard  one  morn- 
ing from  his  clerk  that  a  man  called  Humphreys  wished 
particularly  to  see  him. 

"Show  him  in,"  cried  Mr.  Twiss,  and  for  his  own 
ear  he  added :  "  Now  I  shall  know." 

Humphreys  entered  the  room  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand.  He  laid  the  letter  on  the  office  table.  Mr. 
Twiss  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  addressed  in  Archie 
Cranfield's  hand.  He  flung  himself  Upon  it  and 
snatched  it  up.  It  was  sealed  by  Cranfield's  seal.  It 

21 


THE  CLOCK 

was  addressed  to  himself,  with  a  note  upon  the  left- 
hand  corner  of  the  envelope: 

"To  be  delivered  after  my  death." 

Mr.  Twiss  turned  sternly  to  the  man. 

"Why  did  you  not  bring  it  before?" 

"Mr.  Cranfield  told  me  to  wait  a  month,"  Hum- 
phreys replied. 

Mr.  Twiss  took  a  turn  across  the  room  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"Then  you  knew,"  he  cried,  "that  your  master 
meant  to  kill  himself?  You  knew,  and  remained 
silent?" 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not  know,"  Humphreys  replied 
firmly.  "Mr.  Cranfield  gave  me  the  letter,  saying 
that  he  had  a  long  railway  journey  in  front  of  him. 
He  was  smiling  when  he  gave  it  me.  I  can  remember 
the  words  with  which  he  gave  it:  'They  offer  you  an 
insurance  ticket  at  the  booking-office,  when  they  sell 
you  your  travelling  ticket,  so  there  is  always,  I  suppose, 
a  little  risk.  And  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to 
me  that,  in  the  event  of  my  death,  this  should  reach 
Mr.  Twiss.'  He  spoke  so  lightly  that  I  could  not  have 
guessed  what  was  on  his  mind,  nor,  do  I  think,  sir, 
could  you." 

Mr.  Twiss  dismissed  the  man  and  summoned  his 
clerk.  "I  shall  not  be  in  to  anyone  this  afternoon," 
he  said.  He  broke  the  seal  and  drew  some  closely 
written  sheets  of  note-paper  from  the  envelope.  He 

22 


THE  CLOCK 

spread  the  sheets  in  front  of  him  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

"Heaven  knows  in  what  spirit  and  with  what 
knowledge  I  shall  rise  from  my  reading,"  he  thought; 
and  looking  out  of  his  pleasant  window  upon  the 
barges  swinging  down  the  river  on  the  tide,  he  was  in 
half  a  mind  to  fling  the  sheets  of  paper  into  the  fire. 
"But  I  shall  be  plagued  with  that  question  all  my 
life,"  he  added,  and  he  bent  his  head  over  his  desk 
and  read. 


"My  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  am  writing  down  for  you 
the  facts.  I  am  not  offering  any  explanation,  for  I 
have  none  to  give.  You  will  probably  rise  up,  after 
reading  this  letter,  quite  incredulous,  and  with  the 
conviction  in  your  mind  that  you  have  been  reading 
the  extravagancies  of  a  madman.  And  I  wish  with 
all  my  heart  that  you  could  be  right.  But  you  are 
not.  I  have  come  to  the  end  to-day.  I  am  writing 
the  last  words  I  ever  shall  write,  and  therefore  I  am 
not  likely  to  write  a  lie. 

"You  will  remember  the  little  manor-house  on  the 
borders  of  Essex,  for  you  were  always  opposed  to  my 
purchase  of  it.  You  were  like  the  British  jury,  my 
friend.  Your  conclusion  was  sound,  but  your  reason 
for  it  very  far  from  the  mark.  You  disliked  it  for  its 

23 


THE  CLOCK 

isolation  and  the  melancholy  of  its  dripping  trees,  and 
I  know  not  what  other  town-bred  reasonings.  I  will 
give  you  a  more  solid  cause.  Picture  to  yourself  the 
billiard-room  and  how  it  was  furnished  when  I  first 
took  the  house — the  raised  settee  against  the  wall, 
the  deep  leather  chairs  by  the  fire,  the  high  fender, 
and  on  the  mantelshelf — what? — a  little  old-fashioned 
clock  in  a  case  of  satinwood.  You  probably  never 
noticed  it.  I  did  from  the  first  evenings  which  I  passed 
hi  the  house.  For  I  spent  those  evenings  alone,  smok- 
ing my  pipe  by  the  fire.  It  had  a  queer  trick.  For  a 
while  it  would  tick  almost  imperceptibly,  and  then, 
without  reason,  quite  suddenly,  the  noise  would  be- 
come loud  and  hollow,  as  though  the  pendulum  in 
its  swing  struck  against  the  wooden  case.  To  any- 
one sitting  alone  for  hours  in  the  room,  as  I  did,  this 
tick  had  the  queerest  effect.  The  clock  almost  be- 
came endowed  with  human  qualities.  At  one  tune 
it  seemed  to  wish  to  attract  one's  attention,  at  an- 
other time  to  avoid  it.  For  more  than  once,  disturbed 
by  the  louder  knocking,  I  rose  and  moved  the  clock. 
At  once  the  knocking  would  cease,  to  begin  again 
when  I  had  settled  afresh  to  my  book,  in  a  kind  of 
tentative,  secret  way,  as  though  it  would  accustom 
my  ears  to  the  sound,  and  so  pass  unnoticed.  And 
often  it  did  so  pass,  until  one  knock  louder  and  more 
insistent  than  the  rest  would  drag  me  in  annoyance 
on  to  my  feet  once  more.  In  a  week,  however,  I  got 

24 


THE  CLOCK 

used  to  it,  and  then  followed  the  strange  incident 
which  set  in  motion  that  chain  of  events  of  which  to- 
morrow will  see  the  end. 

"It  happened  that  a  couple  of  my  neighbours  were 
calling  on  me.  One  of  them  you  have  met — Admiral 
Palkin,  a  prolix  old  gentleman,  with  a  habit  of  saying 
nothing  at  remarkable  length.  The  other  was  a  Mr. 
Stiles,  a  country  gentleman  who  had  a  thought  of 
putting  up  for  that  division  of  the  county.  I  led  these 
two  gentlemen  into  the  billiard-room,  and  composed 
myself  to  listen  while  the  admiral  monologued.  But 
the  clock  seemed  to  me  to  tick  louder  than  ever,  until, 
with  one  sharp  and  almost  metallic  thump,  the  sound 
ceased  altogether.  At  exactly  the  same  moment, 
Admiral  Palkin  stopped  dead  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence. It  was  nothing  of  any  consequence  that  he 
was  saying,  but  I  remember  the  words  at  which  he 
stopped.  'I  have  often— — '  he  said,  and  then  he 
broke  off,  not  with  any  abrupt  start,  or  for  any  lack 
of  words,  but  just  as  if  he  had  completed  all  that  he 
had  meant  to  say.  I  looked  at  him  across  the  fire- 
place, but  his  face  wore  its  usual  expression  of  com- 
placent calm.  He  was  in  no  way  put  out.  Nor  did 
it  seem  that  any  new  train  of  thought  had  flashed 
into  his  mind  and  diverted  it.  I  turned  my  eyes  from 
him  to  Mr.  Stiles.  Mr.  Stiles  seemed  actually  to  be 
unaware  that  the  admiral  had  stopped  talking  at  all. 
Admiral  Palkin,  you  will  remember,  was  a  person  of 

25 


THE  CLOCK 

consequence  in  the  district,  and  Mr.  Stiles,  who  would 
subsequently  need  his  vote  and  influence  and  motor- 
car, had  thought  fit  to  assume  an  air  of  great  defer- 
ence. From  the  beginning  he  had  leaned  towards 
the  admiral,  his  elbow  upon  his  knee,  his  chin  propped 
upon  his  hand,  and  his  head  now  and  again  nodding 
a  thoughtful  assent  to  the  admiral's  nothings.  In 
this  attitude  he  still  remained,  not  surprised,  not  even 
patiently  waiting  for  the  renewal  of  wisdom,  but 
simply  attentive. 

"Nor  did  I  move,  for  I  was  amused.  The  two  men 
looked  just  like  a  couple  of  wax  figures  in  Madame 
Tussaud's,  fixed  in  a  stiff  attitude  and  condemned  so 
to  remain  until  the  building  should  take  fire  and  the 
wax  run.  I  sat  watching  them  for  minutes,  and  still 
neither  moved  nor  spoke.  I  never  saw  in  my  life  a 
couple  of  people  so  entirely  ridiculous.  I  tried  hard 
to  keep  my  countenance — for  to  laugh  at  these  great 
little  men  in  my  own  house  would  not  only  be  bad 
manners,  but  would  certainly  do  for  me  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood— but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  began  to  smile, 
and  the  smile  became  a  laugh.  Yet  not  a  muscle  on 
the  faces  of  my  visitors  changed.  Not  a  frown  over- 
shadowed the  admiral's  complacency;  not  a  glance 
diverted  the  admiring  eyes  of  Mr.  Stiles.  And  then 
the  clock  began  to  tick  again,  and,  to  my  infinite  as- 
tonishment, at  the  very  same  moment  the  admiral 
continued. 

26 


THE  CLOCK 

" ' — said  to  myself  in  my  lighter  moments 

A.nd  pray,  sir,  at  what  are  you  laughing?' 

"Mr.  Stiles  turned  with  an  angry  glance  towards 
me.  Admiral  Palkin  had  resumed  his  conversation, 
apparently  unaware  that  there  had  been  any  interval 
at  all.  My  laughter,  on  the  other  hand,  had  extended 
beyond  the  interval,  had  played  an  accompaniment 
to  the  words  just  spoken.  I  made  my  excuses  as  well 
as  I  could,  but  I  recognised  that  they  were  deemed 
insufficient.  The  two  gentlemen  left  my  house  with 
the  coldest  farewells  you  can  imagine. 

"The  same  extraordinary  incident  was  repeated 
with  other  visitors,  but  I  was  on  my  guard  against 
any  injudicious  merriment.  Moreover,  I  had  no 
longer  any  desire  to  laugh.  I  was  too  perplexed.  My 
visitors  never  seemed  to  notice  that  there  had  been 
a  lengthy  interval  or  indeed  any  interval  at  all,  while 
I,  for  my  part,  hesitated  to  ask  them  what  had  so 
completely  hypnotised  them. 

"The  next  development  took  place  when  I  was 
alone  in  the  room.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. I  had  been  out  shooting  a  covert  close  to  the 
house,  and  a  few  minutes  after  I  had  rung  the  bell, 
I  remembered  that  I  had  forgotten  some  instructions 
which  I  had  meant  to  give  to  the  keeper.  So  I  got 
up  at  once,  thinking  to  catch  him  in  the  gun-room 
before  he  went  home.  As  I  rose  from  my  chair,  the 
clock,  which  had  been  ticking  loudly — though,  as  I 

27 


THE  CLOCK 

have  said,  it  was  rather  a  hollow,  booming  sound, 
as  though  the  pendulum  struck  the  wood  of  the  case, 
than  a  mere  ticking  of  the  clock-work — ceased  its 
noise  with  the  abruptness  to  which  I  was  growing 
used.  I  went  out  of  the  room  into  the  hall,  and  I  saw 
Humphreys  with  the  tea-tray  in  his  hands  in  the  hall. 
He  was  turned  towards  the  billiard-room  door,  but 
to  my  astonishment  he  was  not  moving.  He  was 
poised  with  one  foot  in  the  air,  as  though  he  had  been 
struck,  as  the  saying  is,  with  a  step  half  taken.  You 
have  seen,  no  doubt,  instantaneous  photographs  of 
people  in  the  act  of  walking.  Well,  Humphreys  was 
exactly  like  one  of  those  photographs.  He  had  just 
the  same  stiff,  ungainly  look.  I  should  have  spoken 
to  him,  but  I  was  anxious  to  catch  my  keeper  before 
he  went  away.  So  I  took  no  notice  of  him.  I  crossed 
the  hall  quickly  and  went  out  by  the  front  door, 
leaving  it  open.  The  gun-room  was  really  a  small 
building  of  corrugated  iron,  standing  apart  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  I  went  to  it  and  tried  the 
door.  It  was  locked.  I  called  aloud:  *  Martin! 
Martin!' 

"But  I  received  no  answer.  I  ran  round  the  house 
again,  thinking  that  he  might  just  have  started  home, 
but  I  saw  no  signs  of  him.  There  were  some  out- 
houses which  it  was  his  business  to  look  after,  and  I 
visited  them,  opening  the  door  of  each  of  them  and 
calling  him  by  name.  Then  I  went  down  the  drive 

28 


THE  CLOCK 

to  the  gate,  thinking  that  I  might  perhaps  eatch  a 
glimpse  of  him  upon  the  road,  but  again  I  was  dis- 
appointed. I  then  returned  to  the  house,  shut  the 
front  door,  and  there  in  the  hall  still  stood  Humphreys 
in  his  ridiculous  attitude  with  the  tea-tray  in  his  hands. 
I  passed  him  and  went  back  into  the  billiard-room. 
He  took  no  notice  of  me  whatever.  I  looked  at  the 
clock  upon  the  mantelshelf,  and  I  saw  that  I  had  been 
away  just  fourteen  minutes.  For  fourteen  minutes 
Humphreys  had  been  standing  on  one  leg  in  the  hall. 
It  seemed  as  incredible  as  it  was  ludicrous.  Yet  there 
was  the  clock  to  bear  me  out.  I  sat  down  on  my  chair 
with  my  hands  trembling,  my  mind  in  a  maze.  The 
strangest  thought  had  come  to  me,  and  while  I  re- 
volved it  in  my  mind,  the  clock  resumed  its  ticking, 
the  door  opened,  and  Humphreys  appeared  with  the 
tea-tray  in  his  hand. 

"  'You  have  been  a  long  time,  Humphreys/  I  said, 
and  the  man  looked  at  me  quickly.  My  voice  was 
shaking  with  excitement,  my  face,  no  doubt,  had  a 
disordered  look. 

"  'I  prepared  the  tea  at  once,  sir/  he  answered. 

"'It  is  twenty  minutes  by  the  clock  since  I  rang 
the  bell/  I  said. 

"Humphreys  placed  the  tea  on  a  small  table  at 
my  side  and  then  looked  at  the  clock.  An  expression 
of  surprise  came  over  his  face.  He  compared  it  with 
the  dial  of  his  own  watch. 

29 


THE  CLOCK 

"'The  clock  wants  regulating,  sir/  he  said.  'I 
set  it  by  the  kitchen  clock  this  morning,  and  it  has 
gained  fourteen  minutes/ 

"I  whipped  my  own  watch  out  of  my  pocket  and 
stared  at  it.  Humphreys  was  quite  right;  the  clock 
upon  the  mantelshelf  had  gained  fourteen  minutes 
upon  all  our  watches.  Yes,  but  it  had  gained  those 
fourteen  minutes  in  a  second,  and  that  was  the  least 
part  of  the  marvel.  I  myself  had  had  the  benefit  of 
those  fourteen  minutes.  I  had  snatched  them,  as  it 
were,  from  Time  itself.  I  had  looked  at  my  watch 
when  I  rang  the  bell.  It  had  marked  five  minutes 
to  five.  I  had  remained  yet  another  four  minutes  in 
the  room  before  I  had  remembered  my  forgotten  in- 
structions to  the  keeper.  I  had  then  gone  out.  I 
had  visited  the  gun-room  and  the  outhouses,  I  had 
walked  to  the  front  gate,  I  had  returned.  I  had  taken 
fourteen  minutes  over  my  search — I  could  not  have 
taken  less — and  here  were  the  hands  of  my  watch 
now  still  pointing  towards  five,  still  short  of  the  hour. 
Indeed,  as  I  replaced  my  watch  in  my  pocket,  the 
clock  in  the  hall  outside  struck  five. 

"  'As  you  passed  through  the  hall,  Humphreys, 
you  saw  no  one,  I  suppose?'  I  said. 

"Humphreys  raised  his  eyebrows  with  a  look  of 
perplexity.  'No,  sir,  I  saw  no  one,'  he  returned,  'but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  front  door  banged.  I  think 
it  must  have  been  left  open.' 

30 


THE  CLOCK 

"'Very  likely,'  said  I.  'That  will  do,'  and  Hum- 
phreys went  out  of  the  room. 

"  Imagine  my  feelings.  Time  is  relative,  it  is  a  con- 
dition of  our  senses,  it  is  nothing  more — that  we  know. 
But  its  relation  to  me  was  different  from  its  relation 
to  others.  The  clock  had  given  me  fourteen  minutes 
which  it  denied  to  all  the  world  besides.  Fourteen 
full  minutes  for  me,  yet  they  passed  for  others  in  less 
than  the  fraction  of  a  second.  And  not  once  only  had 
it  made  me  this  gift,  but  many  times.  The  admiral's 
pause,  unnoticed  by  Mr.  Stiles,  was  now  explained  to 
me.  He  had  not  paused;  he  had  gone  straight  on 
with  his  flow  of  talk,  and  Mr.  Stiles  had  gone  straight 
on  listening.  But  between  two  of  Admiral  Palkin's 
words,  Time  had  stood  still  for  me.  Similarly,  Hum- 
phreys had  not  poised  himself  upon  one  ridiculous 
leg  in  the  hall.  He  had  taken  a  step  in  the  usual  way, 
but  while  his  leg  was  raised,  fourteen  minutes  were 
given  to  me.  I  had  walked  through  the  hall,  I  had 
walked  back  through  the  hall,  yet  Humphreys  had  not 
seen  me.  He  could  not  have  seen  me,  for  there  had 
been  no  interval  of  time  for  him  to  use  his  eyes.  I 
had  gone  and  come  quicker  than  any  flash,  for  even 
a  flash  is  appreciable  as  some  fraction  of  a  second. 

"I  asked  you  to  imagine  my  feelings.  Only  with 
those  which  I  first  experienced  would  you,  from  your 
sane  and  comfortable  outlook  upon  life,  have  any 
sympathy,  for  at  the  beginning  I  was  shocked.  I  had 

31 


THE  CLOCK 

more  than  an  inclination  then  to  dash  that  clock  upon 
the  hearth  and  deny  myself  its  bizarre  and  unnatural 
gift.  Would  that  I  had  done  so !  But  the  inclination 
was  passed,  and  was  succeeded  by  an  incredible  light- 
ness of  spirit.  I  had  a  gift  which  raised  me  above 
kings,  which  fanned  into  a  flame  every  spark  of  vanity 
within  me.  I  had  so  much  more  of  time  than  any 
other  man.  I  amused  myself  by  making  plans  to  use 
it,  and  thereupon  I  suffered  a  disappointment.  For 
there  was  so  little  one  could  do  in  fourteen  minutes, 
and  the  more  I  realised  how  little  there  was  which 
I  could  do  in  my  own  private  special  stretch  of  time, 
the  more  I  wanted  to  do,  the  more  completely  I  wished 
to  live  in  it,  the  more  I  wished  to  pluck  power  and  ad- 
vantage from  it.  Thus  I  began  to  look  forward  to  the 
sudden  cessation  of  the  ticking  of  the  clock;  I  began 
to  wait  for  it,  to  live  for  it,  and  when  it  came,  I  could 
make  no  use  of  it.  I  gained  fourteen  minutes  now  and 
then,  but  I  lost  more  and  more  of  the  hours  which  I 
shared  with  other  men.  They  lost  their  salt  for  me. 
I  became  tortured  with  the  waste  of  those  minutes 
of  my  own.  I  had  the  power;  what  I  wanted  now  was 
to  employ  it.  The  desire  became  an  obsession  oc- 
cupying my  thoughts,  harassing  my  dreams. 

"I  was  in  this  mood  when  I  passed  Brayton  and 
yourself  one  evening  in  Pall  Mall.  I  wrote  to  him 
that  night,  and  I  swear  to  you  upon  my  conscience 
that  I  had  no  thought  in  writing  but  to  put  an  end 

32 


THE  CLOCK 

to  an  old  disagreement,  and  re-establish,  if  possible, 
an  old  friendship.  I  wrote  in  a  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling.  The  waste  of  my  days  was  brought  home 
to  me.  I  recognised  that  the  great  gift  was  no  more 
than  a  perpetual  injury.  I  proposed  to  gather  my 
acquaintances  about  me,  discard  my  ambition  for 
some  striking  illustration  of  my  power,  and  take  up 
once  more  the  threads  of  customary  life.  Yet  my 
determination  lasted  no  longer  than  the  tune  it  took 
me  to  write  the  letter  and  run  out  with  it  to  the  post. 
I  regretted  its  despatch  even  as  I  heard  it  fall  to  the 
bottom  of  the  pillar-box. 

"Of  my  quarrel  with  Brayton  I  need  not  write  at 
length.  It  sprang  from  a  rancorous  jealousy.  We 
had  been  friends  and  class-mates  in  the  beginning. 
But  as  step  by  step  he  rose  just  a  little  above  me,  the 
friendship  I  had  turned  to  gall  and  anger.  I  was 
never  more  than  the  second,  he  always  the  first.  Had 
I  been  fourth  or  fifth,  I  think  I  should  not  have  minded; 
but  there  was  so  little  to  separate  us  in  merit  or  ad- 
vancement. Yet  there  was  always  that  little,  and 
I  dreaded  the  moment  when  he  should  take  a  bound 
and  leave  me  far  behind.  The  jealousy  grew  to  a 
real  hatred,  made  still  more  bitter  to  me  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  Brayton  himself  was  unaware  of  it,  and 
need  not  have  been  troubled  had  he  been  aware. 

"After  I  left  the  Army  and  lost  sight  of  him,  the 
flame  burnt  low.  I  believed  it  was  extinguished  when 

33 


THE  CLOCK 

I  invited  him  to  stay  with  me;  but  he  had  not  been 
an  hour  in  the  house  when  it  blazed  up  within  me. 
His  success,  the  confidence  which  it  had  given  him, 
his  easy  friendliness  with  strangers,  the  talk  of  him 
as  a  coming  man,  bit  into  my  soul.  The  very  sound 
of  his  footstep  sickened  me.  I  was  in  this  mood  when 
the  clock  began  to  boom  louder  and  louder  in  the  bil- 
liard-room. Chalmers  and  Linfield  were  talking.  I 
did  not  listen  to  them.  My  heart  beat  louder  and 
louder  within  my  breast,  keeping  pace  with  the  clock. 
I  knew  that  in  a  moment  or  two  the  sound  would 
cease,  and  the  doors  of  my  private  kingdom  would 
be  open  for  me  to  pass  through.  I  sat  back  in  my 
chair  waiting  while  the  devilish  inspiration  had  birth 
and  grew  strong.  Here  was  the  great  chance  to  use 
the  power  I  had — the  only  chance  which  had  ever 
come  to  me.  Brayton  was  writing  letters  in  his  room. 
The  room  was  in  a  wing  of  the  house.  The  sound  of 
a  shot  would  not  be  heard.  There  would  be  an  end 
of  his  success;  there  would  be  for  me  such  a  trium- 
phant use  of  my  great  privilege  as  I  had  never  dreamed 
of.  The  clock  suddenly  ceased.  I  slipped  from  the 
room  and  went  upstairs.  I  was  quite  leisurely.  I 
had  time.  I  was  back  in  my  chair  again  before  seven 
minutes  had  passed. 

"ARCHIE  CRANFIELD." 


34 


GREEN  PAINT 


GREEN  PAINT 


I  came  up  by  the  lift  from  the  lower  town,  Harry 
Vandeleur  strolled  from  his  more  respectable  lodging 
in  the  upper  quarter,  and  we  met  unexpectedly  in 
Government  Square.  It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  Square,  a  floor  of  white  within  a  ragged 
border  of  trees,  glared  blindingly  under  the  tropical 
sun.  On  each  side  of  the  President's  door  a  diminutive 
soldier  rattled  a  rifle  from  time  to  time. 

"What?  Has  he  sent  for  you  too?"  said  Harry, 
pointing  to  the  President's  house. 

"Juan  Ballester.  Yes,"  said  I,  and  Harry  Van- 
deleur stopped  with  a  sudden  suspicion  on  his  face. 

"What  does  he  want  with  us?"  he  asked. 

"We  volunteered  in  the  war,"  said  I.  "We  were 
both  useful  to  him." 

Harry  Vandeleur  shook  his  head. 

"He  is  at  the  top  of  his  power.  He  has  won  his 
three-weeks  war.  The  Army  has  made  him  President 
for  the  second  time.  He  has  so  skilfully  organised 
his  elections  that  he  has  a  Parliament,  not  merely 
without  an  Opposition,  but  without  a  single  man  of 

37 


GREEN  PAINT 

any  note  in  it  except  Santiago  Calavera.  It  is  not 
from  such  that  humble  people  like  us  can  expect 
gratitude." 

Juan  Ballester  was,  in  fact,  a  very  remarkable 
person.  Very  few  people  who  had  dealings  with  him 
ever  forgot  him.  There  was  the  affair  of  the  Opera 
House,  for  instance,  and  a  hundred  instances.  Who  he 
really  was  I  should  think  no  one  knew.  He  used  to 
say  that  he  was  born  hi  Mexico  City,  and  when  he 
wished  to  get  the  better  of  anyone  with  a  sentimental 
turn,  he  would  speak  of  his  old  mother  in  a  broken 
voice.  But  since  he  never  wrote  to  his  old  mother, 
nor  she  to  him,  I  doubt  very  much  whether  she  existed. 
The  only  certain  fact  known  about  him  was  that  some 
thirteen  years  before,  when  he  was  crossing  on  foot 
a  high  pass  of  the  Cordilleras  without  a  dollar  in  his 
pocket,  he  met  a  stranger — but  no!  I  have  heard 
him  attribute  so  many  different  nationalities  to  that 
stranger  that  I  wouldn't  kiss  the  Bible  even  on  that 
story.  Probably  he  was  a  Mexican  and  of  a  good 
stock.  Certainly  no  Indian  blood  made  a  flaw  in 
him.  For  though  his  hair  was  black  and  a  pencil- 
line  of  black  moustache  decorated  his  lip,  his  skin 
was  fair  like  any  Englishman's.  He  was  thirty-eight 
years  old,  five  feet  eleven  in  height,  strongly  but  not 
thickly  built,  and  he  had  a  pleasant,  good-humoured 
face  which  attracted  and  deceived  by  its  look  of  frank- 
ness. For  the  rest  of  him  the  story  must  speak. 

38 


GREEN  PAINT 

He  received  us  in  a  great  room  on  the  first  floor 
overlooking  the  Square;  and  at  once  he  advanced 
and  laid  a  hand  impressively  upon  my  shoulder.  He 
looked  into  my  face  silently.  Then  he  said: 

"  Carlyon,  I  want  you." 

I  did  not  believe  him  for  a  moment.  But  from 
time  to  time  Juan  Ballester  did  magnanimous  things; 
not  from  magnanimity,  of  which  quality  he  was  en- 
tirely devoid,  but  from  a  passion  for  the  bran  geste. 
He  would  see  himself  a  shining  figure  before  men's 
eyes,  the  perfect  cavalier;  and  the  illusion  would 
dazzle  him  into  generosity.  Accordingly,  my  hopes 
rose.  I  was  living  on  credit  in  a  very  inferior  hotel. 
"I  had  thought  my  work  was  done,"  he  continued. 
"  I  had  hoped  to  retire,  like  Cincinnatus,  to  my  plough," 
and  he  gazed  sentimentally  out  of  the  window  across 
the  city  to  the  wooded  hills  of  Santa  Paula.  "But 
since  my  country  calls  me,  I  must  have  someone  about 
me  whom  I  can  trust."  He  broke  off  to  ask:  "I  sup- 
pose your  police  are  no  longer  searching  for  you?" 

"They  never  were,  your  Excellency,"  I  protested 
hotly. 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  he  said  indulgently.  "No 
doubt  the  natural  attractions  of  Maldivia  brought 
you  here.  You  did  me  some  service  in  the  war.  I 
am  not  ungrateful.  I  appoint  you  my  private  secre- 
tary." 

"Your  Excellency!"  I  cried. 
39 


GREEN  PAINT 

He  shook  hands  with  me  and  added  carelessly: 

"There  is  no  salary  attached  to  the  post,  but  there 
are  opportunities." 

And  there  were.  That  is  why  I  now  live  in  a  neat 
little  villa  at  Sorrento. 

Ballester  turned  to  Harry  Vandeleur  and  took  him 
by  the  arm.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"Ever  since  the  day  when  I  walked  over  a  high 
pass  of  the  Cordilleras  with  nothing  but  the  clothes 
I  stood  up  in,  and  an  unknown  Englishman  gave  me 
the  railway  fare  to  this  city,  I  have  made  what  return 
I  could  to  your  nation.  You,  too,  have  served  me, 
Seiior  Vandeleur.  I  pay  some  small  portion  of  my 
debt.  Money!  I  have  none  to  give  you";  and  he 
uttered  the  words  without  a  blush,  although  the  half 
a  million  pounds  sterling  received  as  war  indemnity 
had  already  been  paid  into  his  private  account. 

"Nor  would  you  take  it  if  I  had,"  Juan  resumed. 
"But  I  will  give  you  something  of  equal  value." 

He  led  Vandeleur  to  the  window,  and  waving  his 
hand  impressively  over  the  city,  he  said: 

"I  will  give  you  the  monopoly  of  green  paint  in 
the  city  of  Santa  Paula." 

I  stifled  a  laugh.  Harry  Vandeleur  got  red  in  the 
face.  For,  after  all,  no  man  likes  to  look  a  greater 
fool  than  he  naturally  is.  He  had,  moreover,  a  special 
reason  for  disappointment. 

"I  don't  suppose  that  there  are  twenty  bucketsful 
40 


GREEN  PAINT 

used  in  Santa  Paula  in  the  year,"  he  exclaimed  bit- 
terly. 

"Wait,  my  friend/'  said  Ballester;  "there  will 
be." 

And  a  week  afterwards  the  following  proclama- 
tion appeared  upon  the  walls  of  the  public  buildings: 

"Owing  to  the  numerous  complaints  which  have 
been  received  of  the  discomfort  produced  by  the  glare 
of  a  tropical  sun,  the  Government  of  the  day,  ever 
solicitous  to  further  the  wishes  of  its  citizens,  now 
orders  that  every  house  in  Santa  Paula,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Government  buildings,  be  painted  in 
green  paint  within  two  months  of  the  issue  of  this 
proclamation,  and  any  resident  who  fails  to  obey 
this  enactment  shall  be  liable  to  a  fine  of  fifty  dollars 
for  every  day  after  the  two  months  have  elapsed  until 
the  order  is  carried  out." 

Juan  Ballester  was,  no  doubt,  a  very  great  man, 
but  I  cannot  deny  that  he  strained  the  loyalty  of  his 
friends  by  this  proclamation.  Grumblings  were  loud. 
No  one  could  discover  who  had  complained  of  the 
glare  of  the  streets — for  the  simple  reason  that  no  one 
had  complained  at  all.  However,  the  order  was  carried 
out.  Daily  the  streets  of  Santa  Paula  grew  greener 
and  greener,  until  the  town  had  quite  a  restful  look, 
and  sank  into  its  background  and  became  a  piece  with 
its  surroundings.  Meanwhile,  Harry  Vandeleur  sat 
in  an  office,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  put  up  the  price 

41 


GREEN  PAINT 

of  green  paint.  But,  like  most  men  upon  whom  good 
fortune  has  suddenly  shone,  he  was  not  quite  con- 
tented. He  found  his  crumpled  rose-leaf  hi  the  dingy 
aspect  of  the  Government  buildings  and  the  Presi- 
dent's house.  They  alone  now  reared  fronts  of  dirty 
plaster  and  cracked  stucco.  I  remember  him  leaning 
out  of  Juan  Ballester's  window  and  looking  up  and 
down  with  a  discontented  eye. 

"Wants  a  coat  of  green  paint,  doesn't  it?"  he  said 
with  a  sort  of  jocular  eagerness. 

Juan  never  even  winked. 

"There  ought  to  be  a  distinction  between  this 
house  and  all  the  others,"  he  said  gravely.  "The 
President  is  merely  the  butler  of  the  citizens.  They 
ought  to  know  at  a  glance  where  they  can  find  him." 

Harry  Vandeleur  burst  suddenly  into  a  laugh.  He 
was  an  impulsive  youth,  a  regular  bubble  of  high 
spirits. 

"I  am  an  ungrateful  beast,  and  that's  the  truth," 
he  said.  "You  have  done  a  great  deal  for  me,  more 
than  you  know." 

"Have  I?"  asked  Juan  Ballester  drily. 

"Yes,"  cried  Harry  Vandeleur,  and  out  the  story 
tumbled. 

He  was  very  anxious  to  marry  Olivia  Calavera — 
daughter,  by  the  way,  of  Santiago  Calavera,  Bal- 
lester's Minister  of  the  Interior — and  Olivia  Calavera 
was  very  anxious  to  marry  him.  Olivia  was  a  dream. 

42 


GREEN  PAINT 

He,  Harry  Vandeleur,  was  a  planter  in  a  small  way 
in  Trinidad.  Olivia  and  her  father  came  from  Trini- 
dad. He  had  followed  her  from  Trinidad,  but  Don 
Santiago,  with  a  father's  eye  for  worldly  goods,  had 
been  obdurate.  It  was  all  very  foolish  and  very  young, 
and  rather  pleasant  to  listen  to. 

"Now,  thanks  to  your  Excellency,"  cried  Harry, 
"I  am  an  eligible  suitor.  I  shall  marry  the  Senorita 
Olivia." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Juan  Ballester,  with  a  polite 
congratulation.  But  there  was  just  a  suspicion  of  a 
note  in  his  voice  which  made  me  lift  my  head  sharply 
from  the  papers  over  which  I  was  bending.  It  was 
impossible,  of  course — and  yet  he  had  drawled  the 
words  out  in  a  slow,  hard,  quiet  way  which  had  startled 
me.  I  waited  for  developments,  and  they  were  not 
slow  in  coming. 

"But  before  you  marry,"  said  Juan  Ballester,  "I 
want  you  to  do  me  a  service.  I  want  you  to  go  to 
London  and  negotiate  a  loan.  I  can  trust  you.  More- 
over, you  will  do  the  work  more  speedily  than  another, 
for  you  will  be  anxious  to  return." 

With  a  friendly  smile  he  took  Harry  Vandeleur  by 
the  arm  and  led  him  into  his  private  study.  Harry 
could  not  refuse.  The  mission  was  one  of  honour, 
and  would  heighten  his  importance  in  Don  Santiago's 
eyes.  He  was,  besides,  under  a  considerable  obliga- 
tion to  Ballester.  He  embarked  accordingly  at  Las 

43 


GREEN  PAINT 

Cuevas,  the  port  of  call  half  an  hour  away  from  the 
city. 

"Look  after  Olivia  for  me,"  he  said,  as  we  shook 
hands  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer. 

"I  will  do  the  best  I  can,"  I  said,  and  I  went  down 
the  gangway. 

Harry  Vandeleur  travelled  off  to  England.  He  was 
out  of  the  way.  Meanwhile,  I  stayed  hi  Maldivia 
and  waited  for  more  developments.  But  this  time 
they  were  not  so  quick  in  coming. 


II 


Ballester,  like  greater  and  lesser  men,  had  his  in- 
consistencies. Although  he  paid  his  private  secre- 
tary with  "opportunities"  and  bribed  his  friends 
with  monopolies;  although  he  had  shamelessly  rigged 
the  elections,  and  paid  as  much  of  the  country's  finances 
as  he  dared  into  his  private  banking  account;  and 
although  there  was  that  little  affair  of  the  Opera  House, 
he  was  genuinely  and  sincerely  determined  to  give 
to  the  Republic  a  cast-iron  Constitution.  He  had 
an  overpowering  faith  in  law  and  order — for  other 
people. 

We  hammered  out  the  Constitution  day  and  night 
for  another  fortnight,  and  then  Ballester  gabbled  it 
over  to  a  Council  of  his  Ministers.  Not  one  of  them 
could  make  head  or  tail  of  what  he  was  reading,  with 

44 


GREEN  PAINT 

the  exception  of  Santiago  Calavera,  a  foxy-faced  old 
rascal  with  a  white  moustache,  who  sat  with  a  hand 
curved  about  his  ear  and  listened  to  every  word.  I 
had  always  wondered  why  Ballester  had  given  him 
office  at  all.  At  one  point  he  interrupted  in  a  smooth, 
smiling  voice: 

"But,  your  Excellency,  that  is  not  legal." 

"Legal  or  not  legal,"  said  the  President  with  a 
snap,  "it  is  going  through,  Senor  Santiago";  and  the 
Constitution  was  duly  passed  by  a  unanimous  vote, 
and  became  the  law  of  Maldivia. 

That  event  took  place  a  couple  of  months  after 
Harry  Vandeleur  had  sailed  for  England.  I  stretched 
my  arms  and  looked  about  for  relaxation.  The  Con- 
stitution was  passed  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
There  was  to  be  a  ball  that  night  at  the  house  of  the 
British  Minister.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go.  For  a 
certainty  I  should  find  Olivia  there;  and  I  was  seized 
with  remorse.  For,  in  spite  of  my  promise  to  Harry 
Vandeleur,  I  had  hardly  set  eyes  upon  her  during  the 
last  two  months. 

I  saw  her  at  ten  o'clock.  She  was  dancing — a  thing 
she  loved.  She  was  dressed  in  a  white  frock  of  satin 
and  lace,  with  a  single  rope  of  pearls  about  her  throat, 
and  she  looked  divinely  happy.  She  was  a  girl  of 
nineteen  years,  fairly  tall,  with  black  hair,  a  beau- 
tiful white  face,  and  big,  dark  eyes  which  shone  with 
kindness.  She  had  the  hand  and  foot  of  her  race, 

45 


GREEN  PAINT 

and  her  dancing  was  rather  a  liquid  movement  of  her 
whole  supple  body  than  a  matter  of  her  limbs.  I 
watched  her  for  a  few  moments  from  a  corner.  She 
had  brains  as  well  as  beauty,  and  though  she  spoke 
with  a  pleading  graciousness,  at  the  back  of  it  one  was 
aware  of  a  pride  which  would  crack  the  moon.  She 
worked,  too,  as  few  girls  of  her  station  work  in  the 
Republics  of  South  America.  For  her  father,  from 
what  I  then  thought  to  be  no  better  than  parsimony, 
used  her  as  his  secretary.  As  she  swung  by  my  corner 
for  the  second  time  she  saw  me  and  stopped. 

"Senor  Carlyon,  it  is  two  months  since  I  have  seen 
you,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"  Senorita,  it  is  only  four  hours  since  our  brand  new 
Constitution  was  passed  into  law,  and  already  I  am 
looking  for  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  neglected  me." 

"I  regret  to  notice,"  said  I,  "that  my  neglect  has 
in  no  way  impaired  your  health." 

Olivia  laughed.  She  had  a  taking  laugh,  and  the 
blood  mounted  very  prettily  into  her  cheeks. 

"I  could  hardly  be  ill,"  she  said.  "I  had  a  letter 
to-day." 

"Lucky  man  to  write  you  letters,"  said  I.  "Let 
me  read  it,  Senorita." 

She  drew  back  swiftly  and  her  hand  went  to  her 
bosom. 

46 


GREEN  PAINT 

"Oh,  it  is  there!"  said  I. 

Again  she  laughed,  but  this  time  with  a  certain 
shyness,  and  the  colour  deepened  on  her  cheeks. 

"He  sails  to-day,"  said  she. 

"Then  I  have  still  three  weeks,"  said  I  lightly. 
"Will  you  dance  with  me  for  the  rest  of  the  eve- 
ning?" 

"Certainly  not,"  she  answered  with  decision.  "But 
after  the  fifth  dance  from  now,  you  will  find  me,  Senor 
Carlyon,  here";  and  turning  again  to  her  partner, 
she  was  caught  up  into  the  whirl  of  dancers. 

After  the  fifth  dance  I  returned  to  that  corner  of 
the  ballroom.  I  found  Olivia  waiting.  But  it  was 
an  Olivia  whom  I  did  not  know.  The  sparkle  and  the 
freshness  had  gone  out  of  her;  fear  and  not  kindness 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

Her  face  lit  up  for  a  moment  when  she  saw  me,  and 
she  stepped  eagerly  forward. 

"Quick!"  she  said.  "Somewhere  where  we  shall 
be  alone!" 

Her  hand  trembled  upon  my  arm.  She  walked 
quickly  from  the  room,  smiling  as  she  went.  She  led 
me  along  a  corridor  into  the  garden  of  the  house,  a 
place  of  palms  and  white  magnolias  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  upper  town.  She  went  without  a  word  to  the 
railings  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  whence  one  looks 
straight  down  upon  the  lights  of  the  lower  town  along 
the  river  bank.  Then  she  turned.  A  beam  of  light 

47 


GREEN  PAINT 

from  the  windows  shone  upon  her  face.  The  smile 
had  gone  from  it.  Her  lips  shook. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  asked. 

She  spoke  in  jerks. 

"He  came  to  me  to-night.  ...  He  danced  with 
me.  .  .  ." 

"Who?"  I  asked. 

"Juan  Ballester,"  said  she. 

I  had  half  expected  the  name. 

"He  spoke  of  himself,"  she  resumed.  "Sometimes 
it  is  not  easy  to  tell  whether  he  is  acting  or  whether 
he  is  serious.  It  was  easy  to-night.  He  was  serious." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"That  up  till  to-night  all  had  been  work  with  him. 
.  .  .  That  to-night  had  set  the  crown  upon  his  work. 
.  .  .  That  now  for  the  first  time  he  could  let  other 
hopes,  other  thoughts,  have  play.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  I  replied  slowly.  "Having  done  his 
work,  he  wants  his  prize.  He  would." 

Ballester  had  toiled  untiringly  for  thirteen  years  in 
both  open  and  devious  ways,  and,  as  the  consequence 
of  his  toil,  he  had  lifted  his  Republic  into  an  impor- 
tance which  it  had  never  possessed  before.  He  had 
succeeded  because  what  he  wanted,  he  wanted  very 
much.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  there  were  considerable 
trouble  in  front  of  Olivia  and  Harry  Vandeleur — 
especially  Harry  Vandeleur. 

"So  he  wants  you  to  marry  him,"  I  said;  and 
48 


GREEN  PAINT 

Olivia  gave  me  one  swift  look  and  turned  her  head 
away. 

"No,"  she  answered  in  a  whisper.  "He  wants  his 
revenge,  too." 

"Revenge?"  I  exclaimed. 

Olivia  nodded  her  head. 

"He  told  me  that  I  must  go  up  to  Benandalla"; 
and  the  remark  took  my  breath  away.  Benandalla 
was  the  name  of  a  farm  which  Ballester  owned,  up 
in  the  hills  two  hours  away  from  Santa  Paula;  and 
the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  Ballester  was  accus- 
tomed to  retreat  thither  after  any  spell  of  unusually 
arduous  work;  and  the  great  f eastings  which  went  on, 
the  babel  of  laughter,  the  noise  of  music  and  castanets 
and  the  bright  lights  blazing  upon  the  quiet  night 
till  dawn  had  made  the  farm  notorious.  Even  at 
this  moment,  I  knew,  it  was  not  nearly  uninhab- 
ited. 

"At  Benandalla  .  .  .  you?"  I  cried;  and,  indeed, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  mere  presence  of  Olivia  must 
have  brought  discomfort  into  those  coarse  orgies,  so 
set  apart  was  she  by  her  distinction.  "And  he  tells 
you  to  go,"  I  continued,  "as  if  you  were  his  maid- 
servant!" 

Olivia  clenched  her  small  hands  together  and  leaned 
upon  the  railings.  Her  eyes  travelled  along  the  river 
below  and  sought  a  brightness  in  the  distant  sky — 
the  loom  of  the  lights  of  Las  Cuevas.  For  a  little  while 

49 


GREEN  PAINT 

she  was  strengthened  by  thoughts  of  escape,  and  then 
once  more  she  drooped. 

"I  am  frightened,"  she  said,  and  coming  from  her, 
the  whispered  and  childish  cry  filled  me  with  con- 
sternation. It  was  her  manner  and  what  she  left  un- 
said rather  than  her  words,  which  alarmed  me.  Where 
I  should  have  expected  pride  and  a  flame  of  high  anger, 
I  found  sheer  terror,  and  the  reason  of  that  terror  she 
had  not  yet  given  me. 

"He  spoke  of  Harry,"  she  resumed.  "He  said  that 
Harry  must  not  interfere.  .  .  .  He  used  threats." 

Yes,  I  thought,  Juan  Ballester  would  do  that.  ,It 
was  not  the  usual  way  of  conducting  a  courtship; 
but  Juan  Ballester's  way  was  not  the  usual  way  of 
governing  a  country. 

"What  kind  of  threats?" 

"Prisons,"  she  answered  with  a  break  in  her  voice. 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Prisons — especially  in  the 
Northern  Republics  of  South  America.  ...  He 
explained  that,  though  you  have  more  liberty  here 
than  anywhere  else  so  long  as  you  are  free,  you  are 
more  completely — destroyed — here  than  anywhere 
else  if  you  once  get  into  prison."  From  her  hesitation 
I  could  guess  that  "destroyed"  was  a  milder  word 
than  Juan  Ballester  had  used. 

"He  described  them  to  me,"  she  went  on.  "Hovels 
where  you  sleep  in  the  mud  at  night,  and  whence 

50 


GREEN  PAINT 

you  are  leased  out  by  day  to  work  in  the  fields  with- 
out a  hat — until,  in  a  month  or  so,  the  sun  puts  an 
end  to  your  misery." 

I  knew  there  was  truth  in  that  description.  But  it 
was  not  possible  that  Ballester  could  put  his  threat 
into  force.  It  was  anger  now,  not  consternation, 
which  filled  me. 

"Sefiorita,  reflect!"  I  cried.  "In  whose  garden 
are  you  standing  now?  The  British  Minister's — and 
Harry  Vandeleur  is  an  Englishman.  It  was  no  more 
than  a  brutal  piece  of  bullying  by  Ballester.  See !  I 
am  his  secretary  " — and  she  suddenly  turned  round 
towards  me  with  a  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted.  "You  are  his  secretary 
and  Harry's  friend.  Will  you  help  us,  I  wonder?" 

"Show  me  how!"  said  I. 

"It  is  not  Harry  whom  he  threatens,  but  my  father"; 
and  she  lowered  her  eyes  from  mine  and  was  silent. 

"My  father";  and  her  answer  made  my  protesta- 
tions mere  vapourings  and  foolishness. 

The  danger  was  real.  The  British  Minister  could 
hold  no  shield  in  front  of  Santiago  Calavera,  even  if 
there  were  no  guilt  upon  him  for  which  he  could  be 
properly  imprisoned.  But  Olivia's  extremity  of  terror 
and  my  knowledge  of  Santiago  warned  me  that  this 
condition  was  little  likely  to  exist.  I  took  Olivia's 
hands.  They  clung  to  mine  in  a  desperate  appeal  for 
help. 

51 


GREEN  PAINT 

"Come,  Senorita,"  I  said  gravely.  "If  I  am  to 
help  you,  I  must  have  the  truth.  What  grounds  had 
Ballester  for  his  threat?" 

She  raised  her  head  suddenly  with  a  spurt  of  her 
old  pride. 

"My  father  is  a  good  man,"  she  said,  challenging 
me  to  deny  it.  "What  he  did,  he  thought  right  to 
do.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  him.  No!" — and  then 
she  would  have  stopped.  But  I  would  not  let  her.  I 
dared  not  let  her. 

"Go  on,  please!"  I  insisted,  and  the  pride  died  out 
of  her  face,  and  she  turned  in  a  second  to  pleading. 

"But  perhaps  he  was  indiscreet — in  what  he  wrote. 
He  thought,  perhaps,  too  much  of  his  country,  too 
little  of  those  who  governed  it." 

I  dropped  her  hands.  I  had  enough  of  the  truth 
now.  Rumour  had  always  spoken  of  Santiago  Cala- 
vera  as  an  intriguer.  His  daughter  was  now  telling 
me  he  was  a  traitor,  too. 

"We  must  find  your  father,"  I  cried.  "He  brought 
you  to  the  ball." 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "He  will  be  waiting  to  take  me 
home." 

We  hurried  back  to  the  house  and  searched  the 
rooms.  Calavera  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

"He  cannot  have  gone!"  cried  Olivia,  wringing 
her  hands.  In  both  of  our  minds  the  same  question 
was  urgent. 

52 


GREEN  PAINT 

"Has  lie  been  taken  away?" 

I  questioned  the  servants,  and  the  door-keeper  re- 
plied. A  messenger  had  come  for  Don  Santiago  early 
in  the  evening.  I  found  the  British  Minister  at  Olivia's 
side  when  I  returned,  and  a  smile  of  relief  upon  her  face. 

"My  father  made  his  excuses  and  went  home," 
she  said.  "Important  business  came.  He  has  sent 
the  carriage  back." 

"May  I  take  you  home?"  I  asked. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she. 

It  was  getting  near  to  dawn  when  we  drove  away. 
The  streets  were  empty,  the  houses  dark.  Olivia  kept 
her  face  close  to  the  window,  and  never  stirred  until 
we  turned  the  corner  into  the  Calle  Madrid.  Then 
she  drew  back  with  a  low  cry  of  joy.  The  windows  of 
the  great  house  were  ablaze  with  light.  I  helped  her 
out  of  the  carriage  and  rang  the  bell.  We  stood  in 
front  of  the  door  talking  while  the  coachman  drove 
away  to  his  stables. 

"Say  nothing  to  my  father,"  Olivia  pleaded. 
"Promise  me,  Senor." 

I  promised  readily  enough. 

"I  will  come  in  with  you,  Senorita,"  I  said.  "I 
must  talk  with  your  father";  and  I  turned  impa- 
tiently to  the  door  and  rang  the  bell  again. 

"To-night?  "said  she. 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "I  promised  Harry  Vandeleur  to 
look  after  you." 

53 


GREEN  PAINT 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  she,  and  though  her  anxieties  were 
heavy  upon  her,  a  tender  smile  parted  her  lips. 

Still  no  one  came  to  the  door. 

"They  must  have  gone  to  bed,"  I  said,  pushing 
against  the  panels.  To  my  surprise  the  door  yielded 
and  quietly  swung  wide.  We  looked  into  a  hall  silent 
and  empty  and  brightly  lit.  We  were  both  in  a  mood 
to  count  each  new  phenomenon  a  disaster.  To  both 
of  us  there  was  something  eerie  in  the  silent  swinging- 
in  of  the  door,  in  the  emptiness  and  bright  illumination 
of  the  hall.  We  looked  at  one  another  in  dismay. 
Then  Olivia  swept  in,  and  I  followed.  She  walked 
straight  to  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  hesitated 
with  her  hand  upon  the  knob  for  just  the  fraction  of 
a  second,  and  flung  it  open.  We  went  into  a  room 
furnished  as  a  study.  But  the  study,  too,  was  empty 
and  brightly  lit.  There  was  a  green-shaded  reading- 
lamp  beside  an  armchair,  as  though  but  now  the  oc- 
cupant had  sat  there  and  read.  Olivia  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  and  in  a  clear  and  ringing  voice 
she  cried: 

"Father!" 

Her  voice  echoed  along  the  passages  and  up  the 
stairs.  And  no  answer  came.  She  turned  abruptly, 
and,  moving  with  a  swift  step,  she  opened  door  after 
door.  Each  door  opened  upon  a  brightly  lit  and  empty 
room.  She  ran  a  few  steps  up  the  stairs  and  stood 
poised,  holding  up  in  her  white  gloved  hand  the  glis- 

54 


GREEN  PAINT 

tening  skirt  of  her  white  frock.  One  by  one  she  called 
upon  the  servants  by  name,  looking  upwards.  Not  a 
door  was  opened  above  our  heads.  Not  a  sound  of 
any  movement  reached  our  ears. 

Olivia  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs.  I  heard  the  swift 
rustle  of  her  gown  as  she  moved  from  room  to  room; 
and  suddenly  she  was  upon  the  stairs  again  looking 
down  at  me,  with  her  hand  like  a  flake  of  snow  upon 
the  bannister.  She  gleamed  against  the  background 
of  dark  wood,  a  thing  of  silver. 

"There  is  no  one  in  the  house,"  she  said  simply, 
in  a  strange  and  quiet  voice.  She  moved  down  the 
stairs  and  held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said. 

Though  her  voice  never  shook,  her  eyes  shone  with 
tears.  She  was  but  waiting  until  I  went,  to  shed  them. 

"I  will  come  to-morrow,"  I  stammered;  "in  the 
morning.  I  may  have  news  for  you,"  and  I  bent 
over  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  again,  and  she  stood  with 
her  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door.  I  went  out. 
She  closed  the  door  behind  me.  I  heard  the  key  turn 
in  the  lock,  the  bolt  shoot  into  its  socket.  There  was 
a  freshness  in  the  air,  a  paling  of  the  stars  above  my 
head.  I  waited  for  a  while  in  the  street,  but  no  figure 
appeared  at  any  window,  nor  was  any  light  put  out. 
I  left  her  alone  in  that  empty  and  illumined  house, 
its  windows  blazing  on  the  dawn. 

55 


GREEN  PAINT 


III 


I  walked  back  to  the  President's  house  and  sat 
comfortably  down  in  my  office  to  think  the  position 
over  with  the  help  of  a  pipe.  But  I  had  hardly  struck 
the  match  when  the  President  himself  came  in.  He 
had  changed  his  dress-coat  for  a  smoking-jacket,  and 
carried  a  few  papers  in  his  hand. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  not  tired,"  he  said, 
"for  I  have  still  some  work  for  you  to  do.  I  have  been 
looking  through  some  letters,  and  there  are  half-a- 
dozen  of  so  much  importance  that  I  should  like  copies 
made  of  them  before  you  go  to  bed." 

He  laid  them  on  my  writing-table  with  an  intima- 
tion that  he  would  return  for  them  in  an  hour.  I  rose 
up  with  alacrity.  I  was  in  no  mood  for  bed,  and  the 
mechanical  work  of  copying  a  few  letters  appealed 
to  me  at  the  moment.  A  glance  at  them,  however, 
startled  me  into  an  even  greater  wakefulness.  They 
were  letters,  typewritten  for  the  most  part,  but  un- 
doubtedly signed  by  Santiago  Calavera,  and  all  of 
them  dated  just  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war. 
They  were  addressed  to  the  War  Minister  of  Es- 
meralda,  and  they  gave  details  as  to  where  Maldivia 
was  weak,  where  strong,  what  roads  to  the  capital 
were  unguarded,  and  for  how  many  troops  provisions 
could  be  requisitioned  on  the  way.  There  was,  be- 

56 


GREEN  PAINT 

sides,  a  memorandum,  written,  I  rejoiced  to  see,  from 
beginning  to  end  in  Santiago's  own  hand — a  deadly 
document  naming  some  twenty  people  in  Santa  Paula 
who  would  need  attention  when  Juan  Ballester  had 
been  overthrown.  It  was  impossible  to  misunder- 
stand the  phrase.  Those  twenty  citizens  of  Santa 
Paula  were  to  be  shot  out  of  hand  against  the  nearest 
wall.  I  was  appalled  as  I  copied  it  out.  There  was 
enough  treachery  here  to  convict  a  regiment.  No 
wonder  the  great  house  in  the  Calle  Madrid  stood 

empty!     No  wonder  that  Calavera But  while 

I  argued,  the  picture  of  the  daughter  in  her  shining 
frock,  alone  amidst  the  glitter  and  the  silence,  smote 
upon  me  as  pitiful,  and  struck  the  heart  out  of  all  my 
argument. 

Juan  Ballester  was  at  my  elbow  the  moment  after 
I  had  finished. 

"It  is  five  o'clock,"  he  said,  as  he  gathered  the 
letters  and  copies  together,  "and  no  doubt  you  will 
want  to  be  on  foot  early.  You  can  tell  her  that  I  sent 
her  father  in  a  special  train  last  night  to  the  frontier. 
He  is  no  doubt  already  with  his  friends  in  Es- 
meralda." 

"Then  the  prisons "  I  exclaimed. 

"A  lover's  embroideries — nothing  more,"  said  Bal- 
lester, with  a  smile.  "But  it  is  interesting  to  know 
that  you  are  so  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  posi- 
tion of  affairs."  And  he  took  himself  off  to  bed. 

57 


GREEN  PAINT 

His  last  remark,  however,  forced  me  to  consider 
my  own  position,  and  reflection  showed  it  to  be  deli- 
cate. On  the  one  hand  I  was  Ballester's  servant,  on 
the  other  I  was  Harry  Vandeleur's  friend.  I  could 
not  side  with  both,  and  I  must  side  with  one.  If  I 
threw  in  my  lot  with  Juan  Ballester,  I  became  a 
scoundrel.  If  I  helped  Olivia,  I  might  lose  my  bread 
and  butter.  I  hope  that  in  any  case  I  should  have 
decided  as  I  did,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  virtue 
in  the  "might."  For,  after  all,  Juan  seemed  to  recog- 
nise that  I  should  be  against  him  and  to  bear  no  mal- 
ice. He  had  even  bidden  me  relieve  Olivia  of  her 
fears  concerning  her  father's  disappearance.  He  was 
a  brute,  but  a  brute  on  rather  a  grand  scale,  who  took 
what  he  wanted  but,  in  spite  of  Olivia,  disdained  re- 
venge. I  decided  to  help  Olivia,  and  before  nine  the 
next  morning  I  knocked  upon  her  house-door.  She 
opened  it  herself. 

"You  have  news?"  she  asked,  watching  me  with 
anxious  eyes,  and  she  stood  aside  in  the  shadow  of 
the  door  while  I  went  in. 

"Your  father  is  safe.  He  was  sent  to  the  frontier 
last  night  on  a  special  train.  He  is  free." 

She  had  been  steel  to  meet  a  blow.  Now  that  it 
did  not  fall,  her  strength  for  a  moment  failed  her. 
She  leaned  against  a  table  with  her  hand  to  her  heart; 
and  her  face  suddenly  told  me  that  she  had  not  slept. 

"I  will  follow  him,"  she  said,  and  she  hurried  up 
58 


GREEN  PAINT 

the  stairs.  I  looked  out  a  train.  One  left  Santa  Paula 
in  an  hour's  time.  I  went  out,  leaving  the  door  ajar, 
and  fetched  a  carriage.  Then  I  shouted  up  the  stairs 
to  Olivia,  and  she  came  down  in  a  travelling  dress 
of  light  grey  and  a  big  black  hat.  Excitement  had 
kindled  her.  I  could  no  longer  have  guessed  that  she 
had  not  slept. 

"You  will  see  me  off?"  she  said,  as  she  handed  me 
her  bag;  and  she  stepped  gaily  into  the  carriage. 

"I  will,"  I  answered,  and  I  jumped  in  behind  her. 

The  die  was  cast  now. 

"Drive  down  to  the  station!"  I  cried. 

It  was  an  open  carriage.  There  were  people  in  the 
street.  Juan  Ballester  would  soon  learn  that  he  had 
played  the  grand  gentleman  to  his  discomfiture. 

"Yes,  I  will  see  you  off,  Senorita,"  I  said.  "But 
I  shall  have  a  bad  half-hour  with  Ballester  after- 
wards." 

"Oh!"  cried  Olivia,  with  a  start.  She  looked  at 
me  as  though  for  the  first  time  my  existence  had  come 
within  her  field  of  vision. 

"I  am  quite  aware  that  you  have  never  given  a 
thought  to  me,"  I  said  sulkily,  "but  you  need  hardly 
make  the  fact  so  painfully  obvious." 

Olivia's  hand  fell  lightly  upon  mine  and  pressed. 

"My  friend !"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  dwelt  softly 
upon  mine.  Oh,  she  knew  her  business  as  a  woman ! 
Then  she  looked  heavenwards. 

59 


GREEN  PAINT 

"A  man  who  helps  a  woman  in  trouble "  she 

began. 

"Yes,"  I  interrupted.  "He  must  look  up  there 
for  his  reward.  Meanwhile,  Senorita,  I  am  envying 
Harry  Vandeleur,"  and  I  waved  my  hand  to  the  green 
houses.  "For  he  has  not  only  got  you,  but  he  has 
realised  his  nice  little  fortune  out  of  green  paint." 
And  all  Olivia  did  was  to  smile  divinely;  and  all  she 
said  was  "Harry."  But  there!  She  said  it  adorably, 
and  I  shook  her  by  the  hand. 

"I  forgive  you,"  she  said  sweetly.  Yes,  she  had 
nerve  enough  for  that ! 

We  were  driving  down  to  the  lower  town.  I  began 
to  consider  how  much  of  the  events  of  the  early  morn- 
ing I  should  tell  her.  Something  of  them  she  must 
know,  but  it  was  not  easy  for  the  informant.  I  told 
her  how  Juan  Ballester  had  come  to  me  with  letters 
signed  by  her  father  and  a  memorandum  in  his  hand- 
writing. 

"The  President  gave  them  to  me  to  copy  out,"  I 
continued;  and  Olivia  broke  in,  rather  quickly: 

"What  did  you  do  with  them?" 

I  stared  at  her. 

"I  copied  them  out,  of  course." 

Olivia  stared  now.    Her  brows  puckered  in  a  frown. 

"You — didn't — destroy  them  when  you  had  the 
chance?"  she  asked  incredulously. 

I  jumped  in  my  seat. 

60 


GREEN  PAINT 

"Destroy  them?"  I  cried  indignantly.  "Really, 
Senorita ! " 

"You  are  Harry's  friend,"  she  said.  "I  thought 
men  did  little  things  like  that  for  one  another." 

"Little  things!"  I  gasped.  But  I  recognised  that 
it  would  be  waste  of  breath  to  argue  against  a  morality 
so  crude. 

"You  shall  take  Harry's  opinion  upon  that  point," 
said  I. 

"Or  perhaps  Harry  will  take  mine,"  she  said  softly, 
with  a  far-away  gaze;  and  the  fly  stopped  at  the 
station.  I  bought  Olivia's  ticket,  I  placed  her  bag  in 
the  carriage,  I  stepped  aside  to  let  her  mount  the 
step;  and  I  knocked  against  a  brilliant  creature  with 
a  sword  at  his  side — he  was  merely  a  railway  official. 
I  begged  his  pardon,  but  he  held  his  ground. 

"Seiior,  you  have,  no  doubt,  his  Excellency's  permit 
for  the  Senorita  to  travel,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

I  was  fairly  staggered,  but  I  did  not  misunderstand 
the  man.  Ballester  had  foreseen  that  Olivia  would 
follow  her  father,  and  he  meant  to  keep  her  in  Santa 
Paula.  I  fumbled  in  my  pocket  to  cover  my  con- 
fusion. 

"I  must  have  left  it  behind,"  I  said  lamely.  "But 
of  course  you  know  me — his  Excellency's  secretary." 

"Who  does  not?"  said  the  official,  bowing  politely. 
"And  there  is  another  train  in  the  afternoon,  so  that 

61 


GREEN  PAINT 

the  Senorita  will,  I  hope,  not  be  greatly  inconven- 
ienced." 

We  got  out  of  the  station  somehow.  I  was  mad 
with  myself.  I  had  let  myself  be  misled  by  the  be- 
lief that  Ballester  was  indulging  in  one  of  his  exhibi- 
tions as  a  great  gentleman.  Whereas  he  was  carefully 
isolating  Olivia  so  that  she  might  be  the  more  help- 
lessly at  his  disposition.  We  stumbled  back  again 
into  a  carriage.  I  dared  not  look  at  Olivia. 

"The  Calle  Madrid!"  I  called  to  the  driver,  and 
Olivia  cried  "No!"  She  turned  to  me,  with  a  spot 
of  colour  burning  in  each  cheek,  and  her  eyes  very 
steady  and  ominous. 

"Will  you  tell  him  to  drive  to  the  President's?" 
she  said  calmly. 

The  conventions  are  fairly  strict  in  Maldivia. 
Young  ladies  do  not  as  a  rule  drop  in  casually  upon 
men  in  the  morning,  and  certainly  not  upon  Presi- 
dents. However,  conventions  are  for  the  unharassed. 
We  drove  to  the  President's.  A  startled  messenger 
took  in  Olivia's  name,  and  she  was  instantly  ad- 
mitted. I  went  to  my  office,  but  I  left  the  door  ajar. 
For  down  the  passage  outside  of  it  Olivia  would  come 
when  she  had  done  with  Juan  Ballester.  I  waited 
anxiously  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Would  she  suc- 
ceed with  him?  I  had  no  great  hopes.  Anger  so 
well  became  her.  But  as  the  second  quarter  drew 
on,  my  hopes  rose;  and  when  I  heard  the  rustle  of 

62 


GREEN  PAINT 

her  dress,  I  flung  open  the  door.  A  messenger  was 
escorting  her,  and  she  just  shook  her  head  at  me. 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked  in  English,  and  she 
replied  in  the  same  language. 

"He  will  not  let  me  go.  He  was — passionate.  Un- 
derneath the  passion  he  was  hard.  He  is  the  cruellest 
of  men." 

"I  will  see  you  this  afternoon,"  said  I;  and  she 
passed  on.  I  determined  to  have  it  out  with  Bal- 
lester  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  And  within 
the  hour  he  gave  me  the  opportunity.  For  he  came 
into  the  room  and  said: 

"Carlyon,  I  have  not  had  my  letters  this  morn- 
ing." 

"No,  your  Excellency,"  I  replied.  I  admit  that 
my  heart  began  to  beat  more  quickly  than  usual.  "I 
took  the  Senorita  Olivia  to  the  station,  where  we  were 
stopped." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  he  said,  with  a  grin.  "But 
it  is  impossible  that  the  Senorita  should  leave  Santa 
Paula." 

"But  you  can't  keep  her  here!"  I  cried.  "It's — 
it's —  "Tyrannical"  would  not  do,  nor  would 

"autocratic."  Neither  epithet  would  sting  him.  At 
last  I  got  the  right  one. 

"  Your  Excellency,  it's  barbaric ! " 

Juan  Ballester  flushed  red.  I  had  touched  him  on 
the  raw.  To  be  a  thoroughly  civilised  person  con- 

63 


GREEN  PAINT 

ducting  a  thoroughly  civilised  Government  over  a 
thoroughly  civilised  community — that  was  his  wild, 
ambitious  dream,  and  in  rosy  moments  he  would 
even  flatter  himself  that  his  dream  was  realised. 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  exclaimed.  "Don 
Santiago  is  a  dangerous  person.  I  was  moved  by 
chivalry,  the  most  cultured  of  virtues,  to  let  him  go 
unpunished.  But  I  am  bound,  from  the  necessities  of 
the  State,  to  retain  some  pledge  for  his  decent  be- 
haviour." 

The  words  sounded  very  fine  and  politic,  but  they 
could  not  obscure  the  springs  of  his  conduct.  He 
had  first  got  Harry  Vandeleur  out  of  the  way;  then, 
and  not  till  then,  he  had  pounced  upon  Don  Santiago. 
His  aim  had  been  to  isolate  Olivia.  There  was  very 
little  chivalry  about  the  matter. 

"Besides,"  he  argued,  "if  there  were  any  barbarism 
— and  there  isn't — the  Senorita  can  put  an  end  to  it 
by  a  word." 

"But  she  won't  say  it !"  I  cried  triumphantly.  "No, 
she  is  already  pledged.  She  won't  say  it." 

Juan  Ballester  looked  at  me  swiftly  with  a  set  and 
lowering  face.  No  doubt  I  had  gone  a  step  too  far 
with  him.  But  I  would  not  have  taken  back  a  word 
at  that  moment — no,  not  for  the  monopoly  of  green 
paint.  I  awaited  my  instant  dismissal,  but  he  sud- 
denly tilted  back  his  chair  and  grinned  at  me  like  a 
schoolboy. 

64 


GREEN  PAINT 

"I  like  a  good  spirit,"  he  said,  "whether  it  be  in 
the  Senorita  or  in  my  private  secretary." 

It  was  apparent  that  he  did  not  think  much  of  me 
as  an  antagonist. 

"Well,"  I  grumbled,  "Harry  Vandeleur  will  be 
back  in  three  weeks,  and  your  Excellency  must  make 
your  account  with  him." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  Ballester,  and — I  don't 
know  what  it  was  in  him.  It  was  not  a  gesture,  for 
he  did  not  move;  it  was  not  a  smile,  for  his  face  did 
not  change.  But  I  was  immediately  and  absolutely 
certain  that  it  was  not  true  at  all.  Reflection  con- 
firmed me.  He  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  isolate 
Olivia  that  he  would  not  have  overlooked  Harry  Van- 
deleur's  return.  Somewhere,  on  some  pretext,  at 
Trinidad,  or  at  our  own  port  here,  Las  Cuevas,  Harry 
Vandeleur  would  be  stopped.  I  was  sure  of  it.  The 
net  was  closing  tightly  round  Olivia.  This  morning 
the  affair  had  seemed  so  simple — a  mere  matter  of 
a  six  hours'  journey  in  a  train.  Now  it  began  to  look 
rather  grim.  I  stole  a  glance  at  Juan.  He  was  still 
sitting  with  his  chair  tilted  back  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  but  he  was  gazing  out  of  the  window,  and 
his  face  was  in  repose.  I  recalled  Olivia's  phrase: 
"He  is  the  cruellest  of  men."  Was  she  right?  I  won- 
dered. In  any  case,  yes,  the  affair  certainly  began  to 
look  rather  grim. 


65 


GREEN  PAINT 


IV 


I  was  not  free  until  five  that  afternoon.  But  I  was 
in  the  Calle  Madrid  before  the  quarter  after  five  had 
struck.  Again  Olivia  herself  admitted  me.  She  led 
the  way  to  her  father's  study  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Though  I  had  hurried  to  the  house,  I  followed  her 
slowly  into  the  study. 

"You  are  still  alone?"  I  asked. 

"An  old  woman — we  once  befriended  her — will 
come  in  secretly  for  an  hour  in  the  morning." 

"Secretly?" 

"She  dare  not  do  otherwise." 

I  was  silent.  There  was  a  refinement  about  Juan 
Ballester's  persecution  which  was  simply  devilish. 
He  would  not  molest  her,  he  left  her  apparently  free. 
But  he  kept  her  in  a  great,  empty  house  in  the  middle 
of  the  town,  without  servants,  without  power  to  leave, 
without — oh,  much  more  than  I  had  any  idea  of  at 
the  time.  He  marooned  her  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
town  even  as  Richard  the  Third  did  with  Jane  Shore 
in  the  old  play.  But,  though  I  did  not  know,  I  noticed 
that  she  had  changed  since  the  morning.  She  had 
come  out  from  her  interview  with  Juan  Ballester 
holding  her  head  high.  Now  she  stood  in  front  of 
me  twisting  her  hands,  a  creature  of  fear. 

"You  must  escape,"  I  said. 
66 


GREEN  PAINT 

Her  great  eyes  looked  anxiously  at  me  from  a  wan 
face. 

"I  must,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  must."  Then  came 
a  pause,  and  with  a  break  in  her  voice  she  continued. 
"He  warned  me  not  to  try.  He  said  that  it  would 
not  be  pleasant  for  me  if  I  were  caught  trying." 

"A  mere  threat,"  I  said  contemptuously,  "like  the 
prisons."  But  I  did  not  believe  my  own  words,  and 
my  blood  ran  cold.  It  would  be  easy  to  implicate 
Olivia  in  the  treachery  of  her  father.  And  the  police 
in  Maldivia  are  not  very  gentle  in  their  handling  of 
their  prisoners,  women  or  men.  Still,  that  risk  must 
be  run. 

"The  Ariadne — an  English  mail-steamer — calls  at 
Las  Cuevas  in  a  fortnight,"  I  said.  "We  must  smuggle 
you  out  on  her." 

Olivia  stared  at  me  in  consternation.  She  stood 
like  one  transfixed. 

"A  fortnight!"  she  said.  Then  she  sat  down  in 
a  chair  clasping  her  hands  together.  "A  fortnight!" 
she  whispered  to  herself,  and  as  I  listened  to  her,  and 
watched  her  eyes  glancing  this  way  and  that  like  an 
animal  trapped  in  a  cage,  it  was  borne  in  on  me  that 
since  this  morning  some  new  thing  had  happened  to 
frighten  the  very  soul  of  her.  I  begged  her  to  tell  it 
me. 

"No,"  she  said,  rising  to  her  feet.  "No  doubt  I 
can  wait  for  a  fortnight." 

67 


GREEN  PAINT 

"That's  right,  Olivia,"  I  said.  "I  will  arrange  a 
plan.  Meanwhile,  where  can  I  hear  from  you  and 
you  from  me?  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  meet  too  often. 
Have  you  friends  who  will  be  staunch?" 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  slowly.  "Enrique  Gimeno 
and  his  wife,  perhaps." 

"We  will  not  strain  their  friendship  very  much. 
But  we  can  meet  at  their  house.  You  can  leave  a 
letter  for  me  there,  perhaps,  and  I  one  for  you." 

Enrique  Gimeno  was  a  Spanish  merchant  and  a 
gentleman.  So  far,  I  felt  sure,  we  could  trust  him. 
There  was  one  other  man  in  Santa  Paula  on  whom  I 
could  rely,  the  agent  of  the  steamship  company  to 
which"  the  Ariadne  belonged.  I  rang  him  up  on  the 
telephone  that  afternoon  and  arranged  a  meeting 
after  dark  in  a  back  room  of  that  very  inferior  hotel 
in  the  lower  town  where  for  some  weeks  I  had  lived 
upon  credit.  The  agent,  a  solid  man  with  business 
interests  of  his  own  in  Maldivia,  listened  to  my  story 
without  a  word  of  interruption.  Then  he  said: 

"There  are  four  things  I  can  do  for  you,  and  no 
more.  In  the  first  place,  I  can  receive  here  the  lady's 
luggage  in  small  parcels  and  put  it  together  for  her. 
In  the  second,  I  can  guarantee  that  the  Ariadne  shall 
not  put  into  Las  Cuevas  until  dusk,  and  shall  leave 
the  same  night.  In  the  third,  I  will  have  every  bale 
of  cargo  already  loaded  into  her  before  the  passenger 
train  comes  alongside  from  Santa  Paula.  And  in  the 

68 


GREEN  PAINT 

fourth,  I  will  arrange  that  the  Ariadne  shall  put  to 
sea  the  moment  the  last  of  her  passengers  has  crossed 
the  gangway.  The  rest  you  must  do  for  yourself." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I.    "That's  a  great  deal." 

But  the  confidence  was  all  in  my  voice  and  none 
of  it  at  all  in  my  heart.  I  went  back  to  Juan  Bal- 
lester  and  tried  persuasion  with  him. 

"I  have  seen  Olivia  Calavera  this  afternoon,"  I 
said  to  him. 

"I  know,"  said  he  calmly. 

I  had  personally  no  longer  any  fear  that  he  might 
dismiss  me.  I  would,  I  think,  have  thrown  up  my 
job  myself,  but  that  I  seemed  to  have  a  better  chance 
of  helping  the  girl  by  staying  on. 

"You  will  never  win  her,"  I  continued,  "your  Ex- 
cellency, by  your  way  of  wooing." 

"Oh,  and  why  not?"  he  asked. 

"She  thinks  you  a  brute,"  I  said  frankly. 

Juan  Ballester  reflected. 

"I  don't  much  mind  her  thinking  that,"  he  an- 
swered slowly. 

"She  hates  you,"  I  went  on. 

"And  I  don't  seriously  object  to  her  thinking  that," 
he  replied. 

"She  despises  you,"  I  said  in  despair. 

"Ah!"  said  Ballester,  with  a  change  of  voice.  "I 
should  object  to  her  doing  that.  But  then  it  isn't 
true." 

69 


GREEN  PAINT 

I  gave  up  efforts  to  persuade  him.  After  all,  the 
brute  knew  something  about  women. 

I  was  thrown  back  upon  the  first  plan.  Olivia  must 
escape  from  the  country  on  the  Ariadne.  How  to 
smuggle  her  unnoticed  out  of  her  empty  house,  down 
to  Las  Cuevas,  and  on  board  the  steamer?  That 
was  the  problem;  but  though  I  lay  awake  over  it  oj 
nights,  and  pondered  it  as  I  sat  at  my  writing-table, 
the  days  crept  on  and  brought  me  no  nearer  to  a  solu- 
tion. 

Meanwhile,  the  world  was  going  very  ill  with  Olivia. 
Santa  Paula,  fresh  from  its  war,  was  aflame  with  pa- 
triotism. The  story  of  Santiago  Calavera's  treachery 
had  gone  abroad — Juan  Ballester  had  seen  to  that — • 
and  since  his  daughter  had  been  his  secretary,  she  too 
was  tarnished.  Her  friends,  with  the  exception  of 
Enrique  Gimeno,  closed  their  doors  upon  her.  If  she 
ventured  abroad,  she  was  insulted  in  the  street,  and 
at  night  a  lamp  in  a  window  of  her  house  would  bring 
a  stone  crashing  through  the  pane.  Whenever  I  saw 
her,  I  noticed  with  an  aching  heart  the  tension  under 
which  she  laboured.  Her  face  grew  thin,  the  tone 
had  gone  from  her  voice,  the  lustre  from  her  eyes, 
the  very  gloss  from  her  hair.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  me  that  she  must  drop  into  Ballester's  net.  I  raged 
vainly  over  the  problem,  and  the  more  because  I 
knew  that  Ballester  would  reap  prestige  instead  of 
shame  if  she  did.  The  conventions  were  heavy  on 

70 


GREEN  PAINT 

women  in  Maldivia,  but  they  were  not  the  outward 
signs  of  any  spiritual  grace  in  the  population.  On 
the  contrary,  they  were  evidence  that  the  spiritual 
grace  was  lacking.  If  Olivia  found  her  way  in  the  end 
to  the  Benandalla  farm,  Ballester  would  be  thought 
to  have  combined  pleasure  with  the  business  of  re- 
venge in  a  subtle  and  enviable  way.  The  thought 
made  me  mad.  I  could  have  knocked  the  heads  to- 
gether of  the  diminutive  soldiers  at  the  sides  of  the 
President's  doorway  whenever  I  went  in  and  out. 
And  then,  when  I  was  at  my  wits'  end,  a  trivial  in- 
cident suddenly  showed  me  a  way  out. 

I  passed  down  the  Calle  Madrid  one  night,  and  the 
sight  of  the  big,  dark  house,  with  here  and  there  a 
broken  window,  brought  before  my  mind  so  poignant 
a  picture  of  the  girl  sitting  in  some  back  room  alone 
and  in  misery,  and  contrasted  that  picture  so  vividly 
with  another  made  familiar  to  me  by  many  an  eve- 
ning in  Santa  Paula — that  of  a  girl  shining  exquisite 
beyond  her  peers  in  the  radiance  and  the  clean  strength 
of  her  youth — that  upon  returning  to  my  room  I  took 
the  receiver  from  the  telephone  with  no  other  thought 
than  to  talk  to  her  for  a  few  moments  and  encourage 
her  to  keep  a  good  heart.  I  gave  the  number  of  her 
house  to  the  Exchange,  and  the  answer  came  promptly 
back: 

"The  line  is  out  of  order." 

I  might  have  known  that  it  would  be.  Olivia  was 
71 


to  be  marooned  in  her  great  town-house  as  effectively 
as  though  she  had  been  set  down  in  a  lone  island  of 
the  coral  seas.  I  hung  up  the  receiver  again,  and  as 
I  hung  it  up  suddenly  I  saw  part  of  the  way  clear.  I 
suppose  that  I  had  used  that  telephone  a  hundred 
times  during  the  past  week.  It  had  stood  all  day  at 
my  elbow.  Yet  not  until  to-night  had  it  reminded  me 
of  that  little  matter  of  the  Opera  House — one  of  those 
matters  in  which  dealings  with  Ballester  had  left  their 
mark.  I  had  the  answer  to  a  part  of  the  problem 
which  troubled  me.  I  saw  a  way  to  smuggle  Olivia 
from  Santa  Paula  on  board  the  Ariadne.  The  more 
I  thought  upon  it,  the  clearer  grew  that  possibility. 
There  still  remained  the  question:  How  to  get  Olivia 
unnoticed  from  her  house  in  the  middle  of  a  busy, 
narrow  street  on  the  night  when  the  Ariadne  was  to 
sail.  The  difficulties  there  brought  me  to  a  stop.  And 
I  was  still  revolving  the  problem  in  my  mind  when 
the  private  bell  rang  from  Ballester's  room.  I  went 
to  see  what  he  wanted ;  and  I  had  not  been  five  minutes 
in  his  presence  before,  with  a  leaping  heart,  I  realised 
that  this  question  was  being  answered  too. 

Juan  had  of  late  been  troubled.  But  not  at  all 
about  Olivia.  As  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  ate 
his  meals,  went  about  his  business,  and  slept  o'  nights 
like  any  good  man  who  has  not  a  girl  in  torment  upon 
his  conscience.  But  he  was  troubled  about  a  rumour 
which  was  spreading  through  the  town. 

72 


GREEN  PAINT 

"You  have  heard  of  it?"  he  asked  of  me.  "It  is 
said  that  I  am  proposing  to  run  away  secretly  from 
Maldivia." 

I  nodded. 

"I  have  laughed  at  it,  of  course." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  his  face  in  a  frown.  "But  the 
rumour  grows.  I  doubt  if  laughter  is  enough";  and 
then  he  banged  his  fist  violently  upon  the  table  and 
cried:  "I  suppose  Santiago  Calavera  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it!" 

Santiago  had  become  something  of  an  obsession  to 
the  President.  I  think  he  excused  to  himself  his  bru- 
tality towards  Olivia  by  imagining  everywhere  Don 
Santiago's  machinations.  As  a  fact,  the  rumour  was 
spontaneous  in  Santa  Paula.  It  was  generally  sus- 
pected that  the  President  had  annexed  the  war  in- 
demnity and  any  other  portions  of  the  revenue  which 
he  could  without  too  open  a  scandal.  He  was  a 
bachelor.  The  whole  of  Santa  Paula  put  itself  in  his 
place.  What  else  should  he  do  but  retire  secretly 
and  expeditiously  to  some  country  where  he  could 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  industry  in  peace  and  secu- 
rity ?  Calavera  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
story.  But  I  did  not  contradict  Ballester,  and  he 
continued : 

"It  is  said  that  I  have  taken  my  passage  in  the 
Ariadne." 

I  started,  but  he  was  not  looking  at  me. 
73 


GREEN  PAINT 

"I  must  lay  hold  upon  this  rumour,"  he  said,  "and 
strangle  it.  I  have  thought  of  a  way.  I  will  give  a 
party  here  on  the  evening  of  the  day  the  Ariadne  calls 
at  Las  Cuevas.  I  will  spend  a  great  deal  of  money 
on  that  party.  It  will  be  plain  that  I  have  no  thought 
of  sailing  on  the  Ariadne.  I  hope  it  will  be  plain  that 
I  have  no  thought  of  sailing  at  all.  For  I  think  every- 
one in  Santa  Paula,"  he  added  with  a  grim  laugh, 
"knows  me  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that  I  should  not 
spend  a  great  deal  of  money  on  a  party  if  I  meant  to 
run  away  from  the  place  afterwards." 

Considering  Santa  Paula  impartially,  I  found  the 
reasoning  to  be  sound.  Juan  Ballester  was  not  a 
generous  man.  He  took,  but  he  did  not  give. 

"This  is  what  I  propose,"  he  said,  and  he  handed 
me  a  paper  on  which  he  had  jotted  down  his  arrange- 
ments. He  had  his  heart  set  on  his  Republic,  that  I 
knew.  But  I  knew  too  that  it  must  have  been  a  fear- 
ful wrench  for  him  to  decide  upon  the  lavish  expendi- 
ture of  this  entertainment.  There  was  to  be  dancing 
in  the  ballroom,  a  conjuror  where  the  Cabinet  met — 
that  seemed  to  be  a  happy  touch — supper  in  a  mar- 
quee, fairy  lights  and  fireworks  in  the  garden,  and 
buffets  everywhere. 

"You  yourself  will  see  after  the  invitations,"  he 
said,  with  a  grin. 

"Certainly,  your  Excellency,"  I  answered.  They 
would  come  within  the  definition  of  opportunities. 

74 


GREEN  PAINT 

"But  here,"  he  continued,  "is  a  list  of  those  who 
must  be  asked";  and  it  was  not  until  I  had  the  list 
in  my  hand  that  I  began  to  see  that  here  I  might  find 
an  answer  to  my  Question.  I  looked  quickly  down 
the  names. 

"Yes,  she's  there/'  said  Juan  Ballester;  and  there 
she  was,  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff — Olivia  Calavera.  I 
was  not  surprised.  Ballester  never  troubled  about 
such  trifles  as  consistency.  He  wanted  her,  so  he  in- 
vited her.  Nevertheless,  I  could  have  danced  a  pas 
seul.  For  though  Olivia  could  hardly  slip  out  of  her 
own  house  in  any  guise  without  detection  since  she 
had  no  visitors,  she  would  have  a  good  chance  of 
escaping  from  the  throng  of  guests  at  the  President's 
party.  I  left  Juan  Ballester  with  a  greatly  lightened 
heart.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  not  yet  eleven. 
Full  of  my  idea,  nothing  would  serve  me  but  I  must 
this  moment  set  it  in  motion.  I  went  downstairs  into 
the  Square.  Though  the  night  was  hot,  I  had  slipped 
on  an  overcoat  to  conceal  the  noticeable  breastplate 
of  a  white  shirt,  and  I  walked  quickly  for  half  a  mile 
until  I  came  opposite  to  a  high  and  neglected  build- 
ing, a  place  of  darkness  and  rough  shutters.  This 
was  the  Opera  House.  Beside  the  Opera  House  was 
a  little  dwelling.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  tall,  lean  gentleman  in  a  frock-coat.  For 
the  third  time  that  night  good  luck  had  stood  my 
friend. 

75 


GREEN  PAINT 

"Mr.  Henry  P.  Crowninshield,"  I  said,  "the  world- 
famous  impresario,  I  believe?" 

"And  you,  Mr.  Carlyon,  are  the  President's  private 
secretary?"  he  said  coldly. 

"Not  to-night,"  said  I. 

With  a  grunt  Mr.  Crowninshield  led  the  way  into 
hia  parlour  and  stood  with  his  finger-tips  resting  on 
the  table  and  his  long  body  bent  over  it.  Mr.  Crown- 
inshield came  from  New  York  City,  and  I  did  not 
beat  about  the  bush  with  him.  I  told  him  exactly 
the  story  of  Olivia  and  Juan  Ballester. 

"She  is  in  great  trouble,"  I  concluded.  "There  is 
something  which  I  do  not  understand.  But  it  comes 
to  this.  She  must  escape.  The  railways  are  watched, 
so  is  her  house.  There  is  only  one  way  of  escape — 
and  that  is  on  the  seventeenth,  the  night  when  the 
Ariadne  calls  at  Las  Cuevas  and  the  President  gives 
his  party." 

Mr.  Crowninshield  nodded,  and  his  long  body  slid 
with  a  sort  of  fluid  motion  into  a  chair. 

"Go  on,  sir,"  he  said;   "I  am  interested." 

"And  I  encouraged,"  said  I.  "Let  us  follow  the 
Senorita's  proceedings  on  the  night  of  the  seventeenth. 
She  goes  dressed  in  her  best  to  the  President's  party. 
She  is  on  view  to  the  last  possible  moment.  She  then 
slips  quietly  out  into  the  garden.  In  the  garden  wall 
there  is  a  private  door,  of  which  I  have  a  key.  I  let 
her  out  by  that  door.  Outside  that  door  there  is  a 

76 


GREEN  PAINT 

closed,  inconspicuous  carriage  waiting  for  her.  She 
slips  into  that  carriage — and  that  is  where  you  come 
in." 

"How?"  asked  Mr.  Crowninshield. 

"Inside  the  carriage  she  finds  a  disguise — dress, 
wig,  everything  complete — a  disguise  easy  to  slip  on 
over  her  ball-gown  and  sufficient  to  baffle  a  detective 
half  a  yard  away." 

"You  shall  have  it,  sir!  My  heart  bleeds  for  that 
young  lady !"  cried  Mr.  Crowninshield,  and  he  grasped 
my  hand  in  the  noblest  fashion.  He  had  been  a  bari- 
tone in  his  day.  "Besides,"  and  he  descended  swiftly 
to  the  mere  level  of  a  human  being,  "I  have  a  score 
against  Master  Juan,  and  I  should  like  to  get  a  little 
of  my  own  back." 

That  was  precisely  the  point  of  view  upon  which 
I  had  counted.  Throughout  his  first  term  of  office 
Juan  Ballester  had  hired  a  box  at  the  Opera.  Need- 
less to  say,  he  had  never  paid  for  it,  and  Mr.  Crownin- 
shield unwisely  pressed  for  payment.  When  requests 
failed,  Mr.  Crowninshield  went  to  threats.  He  threat- 
ened the  Law,  the  American  Eagle,  and  the  whole 
of  the  United  States  Navy.  Ballester's  reply  had 
been  short,  sharp,  and  decisive.  The  State  telephone 
system  was  being  overhauled.  Juan  Ballester  moved 
the  Exchange  to  a  building  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Opera  House,  and  then  summarily  closed  the  Opera 
House  on  the  ground  that  the  music  prevented  the 

77 


GREEN  PAINT 

operators  from  hearing  the  calls.  It  was  not  astonish- 
ing that  Mr.  Crowninshield  was  eager  to  help  Olivia 
Calavera.  He  lit  a  candle  and  led  me  through  his 
private  door  across  the  empty  theatre,  ghostly  with 
its  sheeted  benches,  to  the  wardrobe-room.  We  chose 
a  nun's  dress,  long  enough  to  hide  Olivia's  gown,  and 
a  coif  which  would  conceal  her  hair  and  overshadow 
her  face. 

"In  that  her  own  father  wouldn't  know  her.  It 
will  be  dark;  the  Quay  is  ill-lighted,  she  has  only  to 
shuffle  like  an  old  woman;  she  will  go  third-class,  of 
course,  in  the  train.  Who  is  to  see  her  off?" 

"No  one,"  I  answered.  "I  dread  that  half-hour 
in  the  train  for  her  without  a  friend  at  her  side.  The 
Quay  wTill  be  watched,  too.  She  must  run  the  gauntlet 
alone.  Luckily  there  will  be  a  crowd  of  harvesters 
returning  to  Spain.  Luckily,  also,  she  has  courage. 
But  it  will  be  the  worst  of  her  trials.  My  absence 
would  be  noticed.  I  can't  go." 

"No,  but  I  can!"  cried  Mr.  Crowninshield.  "An 
old  padre  seeing  off  an  old  nun  to  her  new  mission — 
eh?  Juan  will  be  gritting  his  teeth  in  the  morning 
because  I  am  an  American  citizen." 

Mr.  Crowninshield  was  aflame  with  his  project. 
He  took  a  stick  and  tottered  about  the  room  in  the 
most  comical  fashion.  "I  will  bring  the  carriage  my- 
self to  the  garden  door,"  said  he.  "I  will  be  inside  of 
it.  My  property  man — he  comes  from  Poughkeepsie 

78 


GREEN  PAINT 

— shall  be  the  driver.  I  will  dress  the  young  lady  as 
we  drive  slowly  to  the  station,  and  Sister  Pepita  and 
the  Padre  Antonio  will  direct  their  feeble  steps  to  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  worst-lit  carriage  in  the  train." 

I  thanked  him  with  all  my  heart.  It  had  seemed 
to  me  terrible  that  Olivia  should  have  to  make  he? 
way  alone  on  board  the  steamer.  Now  she  would 
have  someone  to  enhearten  and  befriend  her.  I  met 
Olivia  once  at  the  house  of  Enrique  Gimeno,  and  made 
her  acquainted  with  the  scheme,  and  on  the  night  of 
the  sixteenth  the  steamship  agent  rang  me  up  on  the 
telephone. 

"The  Ariadne  will  arrive  at  nine  to-morrow  night. 
The  passengers  will  leave  Santa  Paula  at  half-past  ten. 
Good  luck!" 

I  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  the 
garden.  The  marquee  was  erected,  the  fairy  lights 
strung  upon  the  trees,  a  set  piece  with  the  portrait 
of  Juan  Ballester  and  a  Latin  motto — semper  fi 'delis — 
raised  its  monstrous  joinery  against  the  moon.  Twenty- 
four  hours  more  and,  if  all  went  well,  Olivia  would 
be  out  upon  the  high  seas,  on  her  way  to  Trinidad. 
Surely  all  must  go  well.  I  went  over  in  my  mind 
every  detail  of  our  preparations.  I  recognised  only 
one  chance  of  failure — the  chance  that  Mr.  Crownin- 
shield  in  his  exuberance  might  over-act  his  part.  But 
I  was  wrong.  It  was,  after  all,  Olivia  who  brought 
our  fine  scheme  to  grief. 

79 


GREEN  PAINT 


There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Women  are  not  reason- 
able beings.  Otherwise  Olivia  would  never  have 
come  to  the  President's  party  in  a  white  lace  coat 
over  a  clinging  gown  of  white  satin.  She  looked  beau- 
tiful, but  I  was  dismayed  when  I  saw  her.  She  had 
come  with  the  Gimenos,  and  I  took  her  aside,  and  I 
am  afraid  that  I  scolded  her. 

"But  you  told  me,"  she  expostulated,  "I  was  to 
spare  no  pains.  There  must  be  nothing  of  the  traveller 
about  me";  and  there  was  not.  From  the  heels  of 
her  satin  slippers  to  the  topmost  tress  of  her  hah*  she 
was  dressed  as  she  alone  could  dress  in  Santa  Paula. 

"But  of  course  I  meant  you  to  wear  black,"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  think  of  it,"  Olivia  exclaimed  wearily. 
"Please  don't  lecture";  and  she  dropped  into  a  chair 
with  such  a  lassitude  upon  her  face  that  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  faint. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  I  said  hastily.  "No  doubt 
the  disguise  will  cover  it.  At  ten  o'clock,  slip  down 
into  the  garden.  Until  then,  dance!" 

"Dance!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  piteously  up  into 
my  face. 

"Yes,"  I  insisted  impatiently,  and  taking  her  hand, 
I  raised  her  from  her  chair. 

80 


GREEN  PAINT 

She  had  no  lack  of  partners,  for  the  President  him- 
self singled  her  out  and  danced  in  a  quadrille  with 
her.  Others  timorously  followed  his  example.  But 
though  she  did  dance,  I  was  grievously  disappointed 
— for  a  time.  It  seemed  that  her  soul  was  flickering 
put  in  her.  Just  when  she  most  needed  her  courage 
and  her  splendid  spirit,  she  failed  of  them. 

There  were  only  two  more  hours  after  a  long  fort- 
night of  endurance.  Yet  those  two  last  hours,  it 
seemed,  she  could  not  face.  I  know  now  that  I  never 
acted  with  greater  cruelty  than  on  that  night  when 
I  kept  her  dancing.  But  even  while  she  danced,  there 
came  to  me  some  fear  that  I  had  misjudged  her.  I 
watched  her  from  a  corner  of  the  ballroom.  There 
was  a  great  change  in  her.  Her  face  seemed  to  me 
smaller,  her  eyes  bigger,  darker  even,  and  luminous 
with  some  haunting  look.  But  there  was  more.  I 
could  not  define  the  change — at  first.  Then  the  word 
came  to  me.  There  was  a  spirituality  in  her  aspect 
which  was  new  to  her,  an  unearthliness.  Surely,  I 
thought,  the  fruit  of  great  suffering;  and  blundering, 
with  the  truth  under  my  very  nose,  I  began  to  ask 
myself  a  foolish  question.  Had  Harry  Vandeleur 
played  her  false  ? 

A  movement  of  the  company  awakened  me.  A 
premonitory  sputter  of  rockets  drew  the  guests  to 
the  cloak-room,  from  the  cloak-room  to  the  garden. 
I  saw  Olivia  fetch  her  lace  coat  and  slip  it  over  her 

81 


GREEN  PAINT 

shoulders  like  the  rest.  It  was  close  upon  ten.  The 
Fates  were  favouring  us,  or  perhaps  I  was  favouring 
the  Fates.  For  I  had  arranged  that  the  fireworks 
should  begin  just  a  few  minutes  before  the  hour  struck. 
In  the  darkness  of  the  garden  Olivia  could  slip  away, 
and  her  absence  would  not  afterwards  be  noticed. 

I  waited  at  the  garden  door.  I  heard  the  clock 
strike.  I  saw  Juan  Ballester's  profile  in  fire  against 
a  dark  blue  sky  of  velvet  and  stars.  I  shook  hands 
with  myself  in  that  the  moon  would  not  rise  till  one. 
And  then  a  whiteness  gleamed  between  the  bushes, 
and  Olivia  was  at  my  side.  Her  hand  sought  mine 
and  clung  to  it.  I  opened  the  postern  and  looked  out 
into  a  little  street.  The  lamps  of  a  closed  carriage 
shone  twenty  yards  away,  and  but  for  the  carriage 
the  street  was  empty. 

"Now!"  I  whispered. 

We  ran  out.  I  opened  the  carriage  door.  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  horn  spectacles,  a  lantern-jawed,  un- 
shaven face,  a  shovel  hat;  and  I  heard  a  stifled  oath. 
Mr.  Crowninshield,  too,  had  noticed  Olivia's  white 
gown.  She  jumped  in,  I  shut  the  door,  and  the  car- 
riage rolled  away.  I  went  back  into  the  garden,  where 
Juan  Ballester's  profile  was  growing  ragged. 

Of  the  next  hour  or  two  I  have  only  confused 
memories.  I  counted  stages  in  Olivia's  progress  as  1 
passed  from  room  to  room  among  the  guests.  Now 
she  would  have  reached  the  station;  now  the  train 

82 


GREEN  PAINT 

had  stopped  on  the  Quay  at  Las  Cuevas;  now,  per- 
haps, the  gangway  had  been  withdrawn  and  the  great 
ship  was  warping  out  into  the  river.  At  one  o'clock 
VI  smoked  a  cigarette  in  the  garden.  From  the  mar- 
quee came  the  clatter  of  supper.  In  the  sky  the  moon 
was  rising.  And  somewhere  outside  the  three-mile 
limit  a  rippling  path  of  silver  struck  across  the  Ariadne's 
dark  bows.  I  was  conscious  of  a  swift  exultation. 
I  heard  the  throb  of  the  screw  and  saw  the  water  flash- 
ing from  the  ship's  sides. 

Then  I  remembered  that  I  had  left  the  garden  door 
unlocked.  I  went  to  it  and  by  chance  looked  out  into 
the  street.  I  received  a  shock.  For,  twenty  yards 
away,  the  lights  of  a  closed  carriage  shone  quietly 
beside  the  kerb.  I  wondered  whether  the  last  few 
hours  had  been  really  the  dream  of  a  second.  I  even 
looked  back  into  the  garden,  to  make  sure  that  the 
profile  of  Juan  Ballester  was  not  still  sputtering  in 
fire.  Then  a  detail  or  two  brought  me  relief.  The 
carriage  was  clearly  a  private  carriage;  the  driver  on 
the  box  wore  livery — at  all  events,  I  saw  a  flash  of 
bright  buttons  on  his  coat.  In  my  relief  I  walked 
from  the  garden  towards  the  carriage.  The  driver 
recognised  me  most  likely — recognised,  at  all  events, 
that  I  came  from  the  private  door  of  the  President's 
garden.  For  he  made  some  kind  of  salute. 

I  supposed  that  he  had  been  told  to  wait  at  this 
spot,  away  from  the  park  of  carriages,  and  I  should 

83 


GREEN  PAINT 

have  turned  back  but  for  a  circumstance  which  struck 
me  as  singular.  It  was  a  very  hot  night,  and  yet  not 
only  were  the  windows  of  the  carriage  shut,  but  the 
blinds  were  drawn  close  besides.  I  could  not  see  into 
the  carriage,  but  there  was  light  at  the  edges  of  the 
blinds.  A  lamp  was  burning  inside.  I  stood  on  the 
pavement,  and  a  chill  struck  into  my  blood  and  made 
me  shiver.  I  listened.  There  was  no  sound  of  any 
movement  within  the  carriage.  It  must  be  empty. 
I  assured  myself  and  again  doubted.  The  little  empty 
street,  the  closed  carriage  with  the  light  upon  the  edges 
of  the  blinds,  the  absolute  quiet,  daunted  me.  I  stepped 
forward  and  gently  opened  the  door.  I  saw  Olivia. 
There  was  no  trace  of  the  nun's  gown,  nor  the  coif. 
But  that  her  hair  was  ruffled  she  might  this  moment 
have  left  Juan  Ballester's  drawing-room. 

She  turned  her  face  to  me,  shook  her  head,  and 
smiled. 

"It  was  of  no  use,  my  friend,"  she  said  gently. 
"They  were  on  the  w^atch  at  Las  Cuevas.  An  officer 
brought  me  back.  He  has  gone  in  to  ask  Juan  what 
he  shall  do  with  me." 

Olivia  had  given  up  the  struggle — that  was  clear. 

"It  was  Crowninshield's  fault!"  I  cried. 

"No,  it  was  mine,"  she  answered. 

And  here  is  what  had  happened,  as  I  learnt  it  after- 
wards. All  had  gone  well  until  the  train  reached  Las 
Cuevas.  There  the  police  were  on  the  look-out  for 

84 


GREEN  PAINT 

her.  The  Padre  Antonio,  however,  excited  no  sus- 
picion, and  very  likely  Sister  Pepita  would  have  passed 
unnoticed  too.  But  as  she  stepped  down  from  the 
carriage  on  to  the  step,  and  from  the  step  to  the  ground, 
an  officer  was  startled  by  the  Xinexpected  appearance 
of  a  small  foot  in  a  white  silk  stocking  and  a  white 
satin  slipper.  Now,  the  officer  had  seen  nuns  before, 
old  and  young,  but  never  had  he  seen  one  in  white 
satin  shoes,  to  say  nothing  of  the  silk  stockings.  He 
became  more  than  curious.  He  pointed  her  out  to 
his  companions.  Sister  Pepita  was  deftly  separated 
in  the  crowd  from  the  Padre  Antonio — cut  out,  to 
borrow  the  old  nautical  phrase — and  arrested.  She 
was  conducted  towards  a  room  in  the  station,  but 
the  steamer's  siren  hooted  its  warning  to  the  pas- 
sengers, and  despair  seized  upon  Olivia.  She  made 
a  rush  for  the  gangway,  she  was  seized,  she  was  carried 
forcibly  into  the  room  and  stripped  of  her  nun's  dis- 
guise and  coif.  She  was  kept  a  prisoner  in  the  room 
until  the  Ariadne  had  left  the  Quay.  Then  she  was 
placed  hi  a  carriage  and  driven  back,  with  an  officer 
of  the  police  at  her  side,  to  the  garden  door  of  the 
President's  house. 

Something  of  this  Olivia  told  me  at  the  time,  but 
she  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of  the  officer  and 
a  couple  of  Juan  Ballester's  messengers. 

"His  Excellency  will  see  you,"  said  the  officer  to 
her.  He  conducted  her  through  the  garden  and  by 

85 


GREEN  PAINT 

the  private  doorway  into  Ballester's  study.  I  had 
followed  behind  the  servants  and  I  remained  in  the 
room.  We  waited  for  a  few  minutes,  and  Juan  himself 
came  in.  He  went  quickly  over  to  Olivia's  side.  His 
voice  was  all  gentleness.  But  that  was  his  way  with 
her,  and  I  set  no  hopes  on  it. 

"I  am  grieved,  Senorita,  if  you  have  suffered 
rougher  treatment  than  befits  you.  But  you  should 
not  have  tried  to  escape." 

Olivia  looked  at  him  with  a  piteous  helplessness  in 
her  eyes.  "What  am  I  to  do,  then?"  she  seemed  to 
ask,  and,  with  the  question,  to  lose  the  last  clutch 
upon  her  spirit.  For  her  features  quivered,  she  dropped 
into  a  chair,  laid  her  arms  upon  the  table,  and,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  them,  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  uncomfortable — even  for  Juan  Ballester. 
There  came  a  look  of  trouble  in  his  face,  a  shadow 
of  compunction.  For  myself,  the  heaving  of  her  young 
shoulders  hurt  my  eyes,  the  sound  of  her  young  voice 
breaking  in  sobs  tortured  my  ears.  But  this  was  not 
the  worst  of  it,  for  she  suddenly  threw  herself  back 
in  her  chair  with  the  tears  wet  upon  her  cheeks,  and, 
beating  the  table  piteously  with  the  palms  of  her 
hands,  she  cried: 

"I  am  hungry — oh,  so  hungry!" 

"Good  Heavens!"  cried  Ballester.  He  started  for- 
ward, staring  into  her  face. 

"But  you  knew,"  said  Olivia,  and  he  turned  away 
86 


GREEN  PAINT 

to  one  of  the  messengers,  and  bade  him  bring  some 
supper  into  the  room. 

"And  be  quick,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  yes,  be  quick,"  said  Juan. 

At  last  I  had  the  key  to  her.  She  had  been  starv- 
ing, in  that  great,  empty  house  in  the  Calle  Madrid. 
"A  fortnight!"  she  had  cried  in  dismay.  I  under- 
stood now  the  reason  of  her  terror.  She  had  known 
that  she  would  have  to  starve.  And  she  had  held  her 
head  high,  making  no  complaint,  patiently  enduring. 
It  was  not  her  spirit  which  had  failed  her.  I  cursed 
myself  for  a  fool  as  once  more  I  enthroned  her.  Her 
face  had  grown  smaller,  her  eyes  bigger.  There  was 
a  look  of  spirituality  which  I  had  not  seen  before.  I 
had  noticed  the  signs,  and  I  had  misread  them.  Her 
lassitude  this  evening,  her  vain  struggle  with  the  police, 
her  apathy  under  their  treatment  of  her,  were  all  ex- 
plained. Not  her  courage,  but  her  body  had  failed 
her.  She  was  starving. 

A  tray  was  brought  in  and  placed  before  her.  She 
dried  her  eyes  and  with  a  sigh  she  drew  her  chair  in 
to  the  table  and  ate,  indifferent  to  the  presence  of 
Ballester,  of  the  officer  who  remained  at  the  door,  and 
of  myself.  Ballester  stood  and  watched  her.  "Good 
Heavens !"  he  said  again  softly,  and  going  to  her  side 
he  filled  her  glass  with  champagne. 

She  nodded  her  thanks  and  raised  it  to  her  lips  al- 
most before  he  had  finished  pouring.  A  little  colour 

87 


GREEN  PAINT 

came  into  her  cheeks  and  she  turned  again  to  her  supper. 
She  was  a  healthy  girl.  There  never  had  been  any- 
thing of  the  drooping  lily  about  Olivia.  She  had  al- 
ways taken  an  interest  in  her  meals,  however  dainty 
she  might  look.  The  knowledge  of  that  made  her 
starvation  doubly  cruel — not  only  to  her.  Juan  sat 
down  opposite  to  her.  There  was  no  doubt  now  about 
the  remorse  in  his  face.  He  never  took  his  eyes  from 
her  as  she  ate.  Once  she  looked  up  and  saw  him  watch- 
ing her. 

"But  you  knew,"  she  said.  "I  was  alone  in  the 
house.  How  much  money  did  you  leave  there  for  me 
when  you  took  my  father  away  ?  A  few  dollars  which 
your  men  had  not  discovered." 

"But  you  yourself "  he  stammered. 

"I  was  at  a  ball,"  said  Olivia  scornfully.  "How 
much  money  does  a  girl  take  with  her  to  a  ball  ?  Where 
would  she  put  it?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  that  question. 

"The  next  day  I  went  to  the  bank,"  she  continued. 
"My  father's  money  was  impounded.  You  had  seen 
to  that.  All  the  unpaid  bills  came  hi  in  a  stream.  I 
couldn't  pay  them.  I  could  get  no  credit.  You  had 
seen  to  that.  My  friends  left  me  alone.  Of  course  I 
starved;  you  knew  that  I  should.  You  meant  me  to," 
and,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  been  wasting  time, 
she  turned  again  to  her  supper. 

"I  never  thought  that  you  would  hold  out,"  stam- 
88 


GREEN  PAINT 

mered  Ballester.  I  had  never  seen  him  in  an  apologetic 
mood  before,  and  he  looked  miserable.  "I  hadn't 
seen  that  you  were  starving." 

Olivia  looked  up  at  him.  It  was  not  so  much  that 
her  face  relented,  as  that  it  showed  an  interest  in  some- 
thing beyond  her  supper. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  at  him.  "I  think  that's 
true.  You  hadn't  seen  with  your  own  eyes  that  I 
was  starving.  So  my  starving  wasn't  very  real  to 
you." 

Ballester  changed  her  plate  and  filled  her  glass 
again. 

"Ah  I"  said  Olivia  with  satisfaction,  hitching  up 
her  chair  still  closer.  She  was  really  having  a  good 
square  meal. 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  I  asked. 

"I  told  no  one,"  said  Olivia,  shaking  her  head.  "I 
thought  that  I  could  manage  till  to-night.  Once  or 
twice  I  called  on  the  Gimenos  at  luncheon-time,  and 
I  had  one  or  two  dollars.  No;  I  would  tell  no 
one." 

"Yes,"  said  Juan,  "I  understand  that.  It's  the 
reason  why  I  wanted  you."  And  at  this  sign  of  his 
comprehension  of  her,  Olivia  again  looked  at  him, 
and  again  the  interest  in  her  eyes  was  evident. 

At  last  she  pushed  back  her  chair.  The  tray  was 
removed.  Ballester  offered  her  a  cigarette.  She 
smiled  faintly  as  she  took  it.  Certainly  her  supper 

89 


GREEN  PAINT 

had  done  her  a  world  of  good.  She  lit  her  cigarette 
and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"And  now/'  she  said,  "what  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  me?" 

Ballester  went  to  his  bureau,  wrote  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  brought  the  paper  to  Olivia. 

"You  can  show  this  at  the  railway-station  to-mor- 
row," he  said,  and  he  laid  the  permit  on  the  table 
and  turned  away. 

Women  are  not  reasonable  people.  For  the  second 
time  that  night  Olivia  forced  me  to  contemplate  that 
trite  reflection.  For  now  that  she  had  got  what  she 
had  suffered  hunger  and  indignities  to  get,  she  merely 
played  with  it  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  looking 
now  upon  the  table,  now  at  Juan  Ballester's  back, 
and  now  upon  the  table  again. 

"And  you?"  she  said  gently.  "What  will  become 
of  you?" 

I  suppose  Ballester  was  the  only  one  in  the  room 
who  did  not  notice  the  softness  of  her  voice.  To  me  it 
was  extraordinary.  He  had  tortured  her  with  hunger, 
exposed  her  to  the  gentle  methods  of  his  police,  yet 
the  fact  that  he  did  these  things  because  he  wanted 
her  seemed  to  make  him  suddenly  valuable  to  her 
now  that  she  was  free  of  him. 

Ballester  turned  round  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"I?"  he  said.  "I  shall  just  stay  on  alone  here 
90 


GREEN  PAINT 

until  some  day  someone  gets  stronger  than  I  am,  per- 
haps, and  puts  me  up  against  the  wall  outside " 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Olivia,  interrupting  him. 

"Well,  one  never  knows,"  said  his  Excellency, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  He  turned  to  the  window 
and  drew  aside  the  curtains.  The  morning  had  come. 
It  was  broad  daylight  outside. 

"Unless,  Olivia,"  he  added,  turning  again  towards 
her,  "you  will  reconsider  your  refusal  to  marry  me. 
Together  we  could  do  great  things." 

It  was  the  most  splendid  performance  of  the  grand 
gentleman  which  Ballester  ever  gave.  And  he  knew 
it.  You  could  see  him  preening  himself  as  he  spoke. 
His  gesture  was  as  noble  as  his  words.  From  head 
to  foot  he  was  the  perfect  cavalier,  and  consciousness 
of  the  perfection  of  his  chivalry  shone  out  from  him 
like  a  nimbus.  I  looked  quickly  towards  Olivia — in 
some  alarm  for  Harry  Vandeleur.  She  had  lowered 
her  head,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  how  she  had 
taken  Ballester's  honourable  amendment.  But  when 
she  raised  her  head  again  a  smile  of  satisfaction  was 
just  disappearing  from  her  face;  and  the  smile  be- 
trayed her.  She  had  been  playing  for  this  revenge 
from  the  moment  when  she  had  finished  her  sup- 
per. 

"I  am  honoured,  Senor  Juan,"  she  said  sedately, 
"but  I  am  already  promised." 

Ballester  turned  abruptly  away.  Whether  he  had 
91 


GREEN  PAINT 

seen  the  smile,  whether,  if  he  had  seen  it,  he  under- 
stood it,  I  never  knew. 

"You  had  better  get  the  Senorita  a  carriage,"  he 
said  to  the  officer  at  the  door.  As  the  man  went  out, 
the  music  from  the  ballroom  floated  in.  Juan  Bal- 
lester  hesitated,  and  no  shock  which  Olivia  had  given 
to  me  came  near  the  shock  which  his  next  words  pro- 
duced. 

"Don  Santiago  shall  have  his  money.  You  can 
draw  on  it,  Senorita,  to-morrow,  before  you  go." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

The  messenger  reappeared.  A  carriage  was  waiting. 
Olivia  rose  and  looked  at  Juan  timidly.  He  walked 
ceremoniously  to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said. 

He  bowed  and  smiled  in  a  friendly  fashion  enough, 
but  he  did  not  answer.  It  seemed  that  he  had  spoken 
his  last  word  to  her.  She  hesitated  and  went  out. 
At  once  the  President  took  a  quick  step  towards 
me. 

"Do  you  know  what  is  said  to-night?"  he  said 
violently. 

I  drew  back.  I  could  not  think  what  he  meant. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  found  him  rather  alarming. 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"Why,  that  I  have  given  this  party  as  a  farewell; 
that  I  am  still  going  to  bolt  from  Maldivia.  Do  you 
see  ?  I  have  spent  all  this  money  for  nothing." 

92 


GREEN  PAINT 

I  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  His  violence  was  not 
aimed  against  me. 

"That's  a  pity,"  I  said.  "But  the  rumour  can  still 
be  killed.  I  thought  of  a  way  yesterday." 

"Will  it  cost  much?"  he  asked. 

"Very  little." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Paint  the  Presidential  House,"  said  I.  "It  wants 
it  badly,  and  all  Santa  Paula  will  be  very  sure  that 
you  wouldn't  spend  money  in  paint  if  you  meant  to 
run  away." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  he,  and  he  sat  down  at 
once  and  began  to  figure  out  the  expense.  "A  couple 
of  hundred  dollars  will  do  it." 

"Not  well,"  said  I. 

"We  don't  want  it  done  well,"  said  Juan.  "Two 
men  on  a  plank  will  be  enough.  A  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  is  too  much.  Half  that  will  be  quite  sufficient. 
By  the  way" — and  he  sat  with  his  pen  poised — "just 
run  after — her — and  tell  her  that  Vandeleur  is  land- 
ing to-morrow  at  Trinidad.  I  invented  some  busi- 
ness for  him  there." 

He  bent  down  over  the  desk.  His  back  was  towards 
the  door.  As  I  turned  the  handle,  someone  was  open- 
ing it  from  the  other  side.  It  was  Olivia  Calavera. 

"I  came  back,"  she  said,  with  the  colour  mantling 
in  her  face.  "You  see,  I  am  going  away  to-morrow — 
and  I  hadn't  said  'Good-bye.' ' 

93 


GREEN  PAINT 

Juan  must  have  heard  her  voice. 

"Please  go  and  give  that  message,"  he  said  sharply. 
"And  shut  the  door!  I  don't  want  to  be  dis- 
turbed." 

Olivia  drew  back  quickly.  I  was  amazed  to  see 
that  she  was  hurt. 

"His  message  is  for  you,"  I  said  severely.  "Harry 
Vandeleur  lands  at  Trinidad  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  slowly;  she  turned  away 
and  walked  as  slowly  down  the  passage.  "Good- 
bye," she  said,  with  her  back  towards  me. 

"I  will  see  you  off  to-morrow,  Senorita,"  I  said; 
and  she  turned  back  to  me. 

"No,"  she  said  gently.  "Don't  do  that!  We  will 
say  'Good-bye'  here." 

She  gave  me  her  hand — she  had  been  on  the  point 
of  going  without  even  doing  that.  "Thank  you  very 
much,"  she  added,  and  she  walked  rather  listlessly 
away.  She  left  me  with  an  uneasy  impression  that 
her  thanks  were  not  very  sincere.  I  am  bound  to  admit 
that  Olivia  puzzled  me  that  night.  To  extract  the 
proposal  of  marriage  from  Ballester  was  within  the 
rules  of  the  game  and  good  play  into  the  bargain. 
But  to  come  back  again  as  she  had  done,  was  not  quite 
fair.  However,  as  I  watched  her  go,  I  thought  that  I 
would  keep  my  bewilderment  to  myself.  I  have  never 
asked  Harry  Vandeleur,  for  instance,  whether  he  could 
explain  it.  I  went  back  to  the  study. 

94 


GREEN  PAINT 

"I  think  fifty  dollars  will  be  ample,"  said  Ballester, 
still  figuring  on  his  paper.  "Has  she  gone?" 

"She  is  going,"  said  I.  He  rose  from  his  chair, 
broke  off  a  rose  from  a  bowl  of  flowers  which,  on  this 
night  only,  decorated  the  room.  Then  he  opened 
the  window  and  leaned  out.  Olivia,  I  reckoned,  would 
be  just  at  this  moment  stepping  into  the  carriage. 
He  tossed  the  rose  down  and  drew  back  quickly  out 
of  sight. 

"Shall  it  be  green  paint,  your  Excellency?"  I  asked. 

His  Excellency,  I  regret  to  say,  swore  loudly. 

"Never  in  this  world!"  said  he. 

I  had  left  the  door  open.  The  music  of  a  languorous 
and  melting  waltz  filled  the  room. 

"I  do  loathe  music!"  cried  Juan  Ballester  violently. 
It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  sentimental  remark 
that  I  had  ever  heard  him  make. 


95 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF 
CAPRICORN 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF 
CAPRICORN 

The  strong  civic  spirit  of  the  Midlands  makes  them 
fertile  in  reformers;  and  Mr.  Endicott  even  in  his 
early  youth  was  plagued  by  the  divine  discontent  with 
things  as  they  are.  Neither  a  happy  marriage,  nor  a 
prosperous  business,  nor  an  engaging  daughter  ap- 
peased him.  But  he  was  slow  in  discovering  a  remedy. 
The  absence  of  any  sense  of  humour  blunted  his  wits 
and  he  lived  in  a  vague  distress,  out  of  which  it  needed 
the  death  of  his  wife  to  quicken  him.  "Some  result 
must  come  out  of  all  these  years  of  pondering  and 
discomfort,  if  only  as  a  memorial  to  her,"  he  reflected, 
and  he  burrowed  again  amongst  the  innumerable 
panaceas.  Then  at  last  he  found  it — on  an  after- 
noon walk  in  June  when  the  sharp  contrast  between 
the  grime  of  the  town  and  the  loveliness  of  green  and 
leaf  which  embowered  it  so  closely,  smote  upon  him 
almost  with  pain.  The  Minimum  Wage.  Like  Childe 
Roland's  Dark  Tower,  it  had  lain  within  his  vision  for 
many  a  long  mile  of  his  pilgrimage.  His  eyes  had 
rested  on  it  and  had  never  taken  it  in;  so  simple  and 
clear  it  was  to  the  view. 

99 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

Thereafter  he  was  quick  to  act.  Time  was  running 
on.  He  was  forty-two.  He  disposed  of  his  business, 
and  a  year  later  was  elected  to  Parliament.  Once  in 
the  House  he  walked  warily.  He  had  no  personal 
ambition,  but  he  was  always  afraid  lest  some  indis- 
cretion should  set  the  House  against  him  and  delay 
his  cause.  Mr.  Endicott  had  his  plan  quite  clear  in 
his  mind.  Samuel  Plimsoll  was  his  model.  The  great 
Bill  for  the  establishment  of  the  Minimum  Wage 
should  be  a  private  member's  Bill  moved  from  the 
back  benches  session  after  session  if  need  be,  and 
driven  through  Parliament  into  Law  at  last  by  the 
sheer  weight  of  its  public  value. 

Accordingly  for  a  year  he  felt  his  way,  learning  the 
rules  and  orders,  speaking  now  and  then  without  sub- 
servience and  without  impertinence;  and  after  the 
prorogation  of  the  House  for  the  summer,  he  took  his 
daughter  with  him  to  a  farm-house  set  apart  in  a  dale 
of  Cumberland.  In  that  solitary  place,  inspired  by 
the  brown  fells  and  the  tumbling  streams,  and  with 
the  one  person  he  loved  as  his  companion,  he  pro- 
posed finally  to  smooth  and  round  his  Bill. 

Accident  or  destiny,  however — whichever  you  like 
to  call  the  beginning  of  tragic  things — put  an  Aus- 
tralian in  the  same  compartment  of  the  railway-car- 
riage; and  the  Australian  was  led  to  converse  by  the 
sight  of  various  cameras  on  the  luggage  rack. 

"My  father  is  very  fond  of  photography,"  said 
100 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

Elsie  Endicott.     "It  amuses  him,  and  the  pictures 
which  he  takes  if  the  day  is  clear,  are  sometimes  quite 
recognisable." 
*     "My  dear!"  said  Mr.  Endicott. 

Elsie  turned  to  the  window  and  shook  hands  with 
two  young  men  who  had  come  to  see  her  off.  One 
of  them,  whom  Mr.  Endicott  vaguely  remembered 
to  have  seen  at  meals  in  his  house,  climbed  on  the 
footboard. 

"You  will  take  care  of  Miss  Endicott,  sir,"  he  said 
firmly.  "She  has  been  overdoin'  it  a  bit,  dancin', 
you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  while  you  were  at 
the  House  of  Commons." 

Mr.  Endicott  chuckled. 

"I'll  tell  you  something  about  my  daughter,"  he 
replied.  "She  may  look  like  china,  but  she  is  pretty 
solid  earthenware  really.  And  if  there  are  any  others 
as  anxious  about  her  as  you  are  you  might  spread  the 
good  news." 

The  train  moved  off.  "So  you  are  in  the  House 
of  Commons,"  said  the  Australian,  and  he  began  to 
talk.  "Our  great  trouble — yours  and  mine — is " 

"I  know  it,"  Mr.  Endicott  interrupted  with  a  smile 
of  confidence. 

"Of  course  you  do,"  replied  the  Australian.  "It's 
the  overcrowding  of  the  East  under  the  protective 
rule  of  the  British." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Endicott  blankly. 
101 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

"We  could  help  a  good  deal,"  the  Australian  con- 
tinued, "if  only  our  Government  had  got  a  ha'porth 
of  common  sense.  North  of  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn, 
there's  land  and  to  spare  which  coloured  labour  could 
cultivate  and  white  labour  can't." 

This  was  strange  talk  to  Mr.  Endicott.  He  was 
aware,  but  not  conscious  of  great  dominions  and  pos- 
sessions outside  the  British  Islands.  He  had  indeed 
avoided  the  whole  subject.  He  was  shy  of  the  phrase 
which  described  them,  as  a  horse  is  shy  of  a  news- 
paper blown  about  the  street.  The  British  Empire! 
The  very  words  had  a  post-prandial  sound.  Instead 
of  suggesting  to  him  vast  territories  with  myriads  of 
men  and  women  groping  amongst  enormous  problems, 
they  evoked  a  picture  of  a  flamboyant  gentleman  in 
evening  dress  standing  at  the  head  of  a  table,  his  face 
congested  with  too  much  dinner,  a  glass  of  wine  in 
his  one  hand,  a  fat  cigar  in  the  other,  and  talking 
vauntingly.  This  particular  sentence  of  the  Aus- 
tralian stuck  inconveniently  in  his  mind  and  smoul- 
dered there. 

For  instance.  On  the  afternoon  of  their  arrival 
Elsie  was  arranging  his  developing  dishes  and  his 
chemicals  on  a  small  rough  table  in  a  corner  of  their 
one  living-room.  She  put  an  old  basket-chair  by  the 
table  and  set  around  it  a  screen  which  she  had  dis- 
covered in  one  of  the  bedrooms  upstairs. 

"There !"  she  said.  "You  can  make  all  your  messes 
102 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

here,  father,  and  we  can  keep  the  room  looking  habit- 
able, and  I  shan't  get  all  my  frocks  stained." 

"Very  well,  Elsie,"  said  her  father  absently,  and 
%he  spoke  his  own  thoughts.  "That  was  a  curious 
fear  of  the  man  in  the  train,  Elsie.  I  think  there's 
no  truth  hi  it.  No,  the  danger's  here  in  this  country; 
here's  what's  to  be  done  to  avert  it,"  and  he  slapped 
his  hand  down  upon  his  pile  of  statistics. 

"No  doubt,  father,"  said  Elsie,  and  she  went  on 
with  her  work. 

The  very  next  evening  he  returned  again  to  the 
subject.  It  was  after  dinner  and  about  half-past 
nine  o'clock.  The  blinds  had  not  been  lowered  and 
Endicott  looked  out  through  the  open  windows  on  to 
a  great  flank  of  Scawfell  which  lay  drenched  in  white 
moonlight  a  couple  of  fields  away. 

"North  of  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn,"  he  said,  "I 
wish  we  had  an  atlas,  Elsie." 

"I'll  write  to  London  and  buy  one,"  said  the  girl. 
"We  haven't  got  more  than  a  'Handy  Gazetteer' 
even  at  home.  It'll  be  amusing  to  plan  out  some  long 
journeys  which  we  can  take  together  when  you  have 
passed  your  Bill  into  law." 

Endicott  smiled  grimly  at  his  daughter. 

"I  reckon  we  won't  take  many  journeys  together, 
Elsie.  Oh,  you  needn't  look  surprised  and  hurt!  I 
am  not  taken  hi  by  you  a  bit,  my  dear.  That  young 
spark  on  the  footboard  who  told  me  I  didn't  take 

103 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

enough  care  of  you" — and  Elsie  gurgled  with  laughter 
at  the  recollection — "threw  a  dreadful  light  upon  your 
character  and  gave  me  a  clue  besides  to  the  riddle 
of  your  vast  correspondence.  I  hope  you  are  telling 
them  all  that  my  persistent  unkindness  is  not  driving 
you  into  a  decline." 

Elsie  paused  in  the  act  of  addressing  an  envelope 
— there  was  a  growing  pile  of  letters  in  front  of  her — 
to  reassure  her  father. 

"I  tell  them  all,"  she  replied,  "that  you  neither 
beat  me  nor  starve  me,  and  that  if  you  weren't  so 
very  messy  with  your  chemicals  in  the  corner  over 
there,  I  should  have  very  little  reason  to  change  my 
home." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Endicott.  He 
was  very  proud  of  his  daughter  and  especially  of  her 
health.  With  her  dark  rebellious  hair,  the  delicate 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  starry  eyes,  she  had  a 
quite  delusive  look  of  fragility.  But  she  could  dance 
any  youth  of  her  acquaintance  to  a  standstill  without 
ruffling  her  curls,  as  he  very  well  knew.  He  gazed 
at  her  lowered  head  with  a  smile. 

"However,  all  this  doesn't  help  me  with  the  Mini- 
mum Wage,"  he  continued,  and  he  turned  again  to 
the  papers  on  his  desk  by  the  window,  while  Elsie 
at  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  big  low-roofed  room, 
continued  to  write  her  letters. 

They  were  still  engaged  in  these  pursuits  when  Mrs. 
104 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

Tyson,  their  landlady,  came  into  the  room  to  lower 
the  blinds. 

"No,  please  leave  them  up,"  said  Endicott,  in  an 
irritable  voice.  "I'll  draw  them  down  myself  before 
we  go  to  bed." 

Mrs.  Tyson  accordingly  left  the  blinds  alone. 

"And  you'll  be  careful  of  the  Crown  Derby,"  she 
said  imperturbably,  nodding  towards  a  china  tea-set 
ranged  in  an  open  cabinet  near  to  the  door.  "  Gentle- 
men from  London  have  asked  me  to  sell  it  over  and 
over.  For  it's  of  great  value.  But  I  won't,  as  I 
promised  my  mother.  She,  poor  woman " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interposed  Mr.  Endicott,  "we'll  be  very 
careful.  You  may  remember  you  told  us  all  about  it 
yesterday." 

Mrs.  Tyson  turned  down  a  little  lower  the  one  oil 
lamp  which,  with  the  candles  upon  Endicott's  desk, 
lighted  the  room,  and  went  back  to  the  inner  door. 

"Will  you  be  wanting  anything  more  for  a  little 
while?"  she  asked.  "For  my  girl's  away,  and  I  must 
go  down  the  valley.  I  am  sending  some  sheep  away 
to  market  to-morrow  morning." 

"No,  we  want  nothing  at  all,"  said  Elsie,  without 
paying  much  attention  to  what  the  woman  was  say- 
ing. Mrs.  Tyson  was  obviously  inclined  to  fuss,  and 
would  have  to  be  suppressed.  But  she  went  out  now 
without  another  word.  There  were  two  doors  to  the 
room  at  opposite  ends,  the  inner  one  leading  to  a  small 

105 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

hall,  the  kitchen  and  the  staircase,  the  other,  and  outer 
door,  opening  directly  close  by  the  window  on  to  a 
tiny  garden  with  a  flagged  pathway.  At  the  end  of 
the  path  there  was  a  gate,  and  a  low  garden  wall. 
Beyond  the  gate  a  narrow  lane  and  a  brook  separated 
the  house  from  the  fields  and  the  great  flank  of  fell. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  Endicott,  unable  to  con- 
centrate his  attention  upon  his  chosen  theme,  had 
the  despairing  sensation  that  he  had  lost  grip  of  it 
altogether:  his  eyes  wandered  from  his  papers  so 
continually  to  the  hillside  asleep  in  the  bright  moon- 
light. Here  a  great  boulder  threw  a  long  motionless 
shadow  down  the  slope,  like  a  house;  there  a  sharp 
rock-ridge  cropping  out  of  the  hill,  raised  against  the 
sky  a  line  of  black  pinnacles  like  a  file  of  soldiers. 

"I  can't  work  to-night,  Elsie,  and  that's  the  truth," 
cried  Endicott  passionately,  "though  this  is  just  the 
night  when  one  ought  to  be  most  alive  to  the  millions 
of  men  cooped  in  hot  cities  and  living  wretchedly. 
I'll  go  out  of  doors.  Will  you  come?" 

Elsie  hesitated.  Mr.  Endicott  was  to  carry  that 
poignant  recollection  to  his  death.  One  word  of  per- 
suasion and  she  would  have  come  with  him.  But  he 
did  not  speak  it,  and  Elsie  bent  her  head  again  to  her 
work. 

"No,  thanks,  father,"  she  said.  "I'll  finish  these 
letters.  They  must  go  off  to-morrow  morning." 

Endicott  blew  out  his  candles,  lit  his  pipe,  and  took 
106 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

up  his  cap.  He  was  still  smiling  over  her  important 
air  as  of  someone  with  great  and  urgent  business.  He 
went  out  into  the  garden.  Elsie  heard  the  latch  of 
the  gate  click.  He  walked  across  the  little  bridge  over 
the  brook  and  at  once  his  mood  changed.  He  wan- 
dered across  the  fields  and  up  the  hillside,  sorely  dis- 
contented with  himself.  He  had  lost  interest  in  the 
Minimum  Wage.  So  much  he  admitted.  The  sur- 
roundings which  were  to  inspire  him  had,  on  the  con- 
trary, merely  provoked  a  disinclination  to  do  any 
work  whatever.  The  reaction  after  the  strain  of  the 
Session  was  making  itself  felt.  The  question  in  his 
mind  was  "Why  bother?"  High  up  the  hill  he  sat 
down  upon  a  boulder  to  have  it  out  with  himself. 

The  sound  of  the  stream  dropping  from  pool  to 
pool  of  rock  on  its  way  down  the  valley  rose  in  a  con- 
tinuous thunder  to  his  ears.  He  looked  down  at  the 
little  farm-house  beneath  him,  and  the  golden  light 
of  the  lamp  within  the  windows  of  the  sitting-room. 

As  he  looked  the  light  moved.  Then  it  diminished; 
then  it  vanished  altogether.  Endicott  chuckled  and 
lit  a  second  pipe,  holding  the  lighted  match  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hands  and  bending  his  head  close  over 
it,  because  of  a  whisper  of  air.  Elsie  had  finished  her 
letters  to  the  youths  who  besieged  her  and  was  off 
to  bed.  Only  the  moonlight  blazed  upon  the  win- 
dows now  and  turned  them  into  mirrors  of  burnished 
silver. 

107 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

Endicott  smoked  a  third  pipe  whilst  he  wrestled 
with  himself  upon  the  hillside.  To-morrow  he  would 
get  up  very  early,  bathe  in  the  big  deep  pool,  trans- 
parent to  the  lowest  of  its  thirty  feet  of  water,  and 
then  spend  a  long  morning  with  the  wage-lists  of  the 
chain-making  industry.  That  was  settled.  Nothing 
should  change  his  plan.  Meanwhile  it  was  very  pleas- 
ant up  here  under  the  cool  sky  of  moonlight  and  faint 
stars. 

He  dragged  himself  up  reluctantly  from  his  seat, 
and  went  down  towards  the  farm.  There  was  a  little 
stone  bridge  to  cross  over  one  of  the  many  mountain 
streams  which  went  to  the  making  of  the  small  river 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house.  Then  came  the  lane 
and  the  garden-gate.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him 
when  he  had  gone  in.  Although  there  was  no  lamp 
burning,  the  room  was  not  dark.  A  twilight,  vaporous 
and  silvery,  crept  into  it,  darkening  towards  the  inner 
part  and  filling  the  corners  with  mystery;  while  the 
floor  by  the  window  was  chequered  with  great  panels 
of  light  precise  and  bright  as  day. 

On  the  hillside  Endicott  had  seen  the  light  go  out 
in  the  room,  and  he  crossed  over  to  the  big  table  for 
the  lamp.  But  it  was  no  longer  there.  Elsie  had  taken 
it,  no  doubt,  into  the  hall  with  her  letters  for  the  morn- 
ing post  and  had  not  brought  it  back.  He  moved  to 
his  own  table  where  the  candles  stood;  and  with  a 
shock  he  perceived  that  he  was  not  alone  hi  that  un- 

108 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

lighted  room.    A  movement  amongst  the  shadows  by 
the  inner  door  caught  and  held  his  eyes. 

He  swung  round  and  faced  the  spot.  He  saw  against 
the  wall  near  the  screen  which  hid  his  photographic 
paraphernalia,  a  man  standing,  straight,  upright  and 
very  still.  The  figure  was  vague  and  blurred,  but 
Endicott  could  see  that  his  legs  were  clothed  in  white, 
and  that  he  wore  some  bulky  and  outlandish  gear 
upon  his  head.  Endicott  quickly  struck  a  match.  At 
the  scratch  and  spurt  of  flame,  the  man  in  the  shadow 
ran  forward  towards  the  door  with  extraordinary 
swiftness.  But  his  shoulder  caught  the  case  in  which 
Mrs.  Tyson's  Crown  Derby  china  was  standing,  and 
brought  it  with  a  crash  of  broken  crockery  to  the 
floor.  Before  the  intruder  could  recover,  Endicott 
set  his  back  against  the  door  and  held  the  burning 
match  above  his  head.  He  was  amazed  by  what  he 
saw. 

The  intruder  was  an  Asiatic  with  the  conventional 
hawk-nose  of  the  Jew  in  the  shape  of  his  face;  a  brown 
man  wearing  a  coloured  turban  upon  his  head,  an  old 
tweed  jacket  on  his  shoulders,  and  a  pair  of  dirty  white 
linen  trousers  on  his  legs,  narrowing  until  they  fitted 
closely  round  his  ankles.  He  wore  neither  shoes  nor 
stockings.  And  he  stood  very  still  watching  Endi- 
cott with  alert,  bright  eyes.  Endicott,  without  moving 
from  the  door,  reached  out  and  lit  the  candles  upon 
the  table. 

109 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  demanded  curiously. 
He  had  no  personal  fear,  and  he  was  not  much  troubled 
by  the  man's  hiding  in  the  room.  Elsie,  whom  the 
fellow  might  have  frightened,  had  long  since  gone  to 
bed,  and  there  was  nothing  of  value,  except  the  Crown 
Derby,  which  he  could  have  stolen.  On  the  other 
hand  Endicott  was  immensely  puzzled  by  the  presence 
of  an  Asiastic  at  all  in  this  inland  and  lonely  valley  far 
from  railways  and  towns,  at  half-past  ten  of  the  night. 

"I  pass  the  house,"  the  man  answered  in  English 
which  was  astonishingly  good.  "I  think  you  give  me 
one  piece  opium  to  go  on  with." 

"Opium!"  cried  Mr.  Endicott,  as  if  he  had  been 
stung.  How  many  times  had  he  voted  for  the  sup- 
pression of  everything  to  do  with  opium.  "You'll 
find  none  of  that  abominable  drug  here ! " 

He  surveyed  the  Asiatic,  outraged  in  every  feeling. 
He  lifted  the  latch.  He  was  on  the  point  of  flinging 
open  the  door.  He  had  actually  begun  to  open  it, 
when  his  mood  changed.  North  of  the  Tropic  of 
Capricorn.  The  lilt  of  the  words  was  in  his  ears.  He 
remembered  the  talk  of  the  Australian  in  the  rail- 
way-carriage about  the  overcrowding  of  the  East. 
The  coming  of  this  strange  brown  man  seemed  to  him 
of  a  sudden  curiously  relevant.  He  closed  the  door 
again. 

"You  passed  the  house  ?  Where  do  you  come  from ? 
Who  are  you?  How  do  you  come  here?" 

110 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

The  Asiatic,  who  had  stood  gathered  like  a  runner 
at  the  starting-point  while  the  door  was  being  opened, 
now  cringed  and  smiled. 

"Protector  of  the  poor,  I  tell  you  my  story";  and 
Mr.  Endicott  found  himself  listening  in  that  quiet 
farm-house  of  the  Cumberland  dales  to  a  most  en- 
lightening Odyssey. 

The  man's  name  was  Ahmed  Ali,  and  he  was  a 
Pathan  of  the  hills.  His  home  was  in  the  middle 
country  between  Peshawur  and  the  borders  of  Af- 
ghanistan, and  he  belonged  to  a  tribe  of  seven  hun- 
dred men,  every  one  of  whom  had  left  his  home  and 
his  wife  and  his  children  behind  him,  and  had  gone 
down  to  Bombay  to  seek  his  livelihood  in  the  stoke- 
holds of  ships.  Ahmed  had  been  taken  on  a  steamer 
of  the  Peninsula  and  Oriental  Line  bound  for  Aus- 
tralia, where  he  hoped  to  make  his  fortune.  But  neither 
at  Sydney  nor  at  Melbourne  had  he  been  allowed  to 
land. 

"But  I  am  a  British  citizen,"  he  said,  having  ac- 
quired some  English. 

"Well,  and  what  of  it?"  said  the  Port  authorities. 

Nevertheless  the  night  before  the  boat  sailed  he 
slipped  overboard  and  swam  ashore,  to  be  caught 
when  the  smoke  of  that  steamer  was  no  more  than  a 
stain  on  the  horizon.  He  was  held  in  custody  and 
would  have  been  returned  by  the  next  steamer  to 
India.  But  there  was  already  in  the  harbour  a  cargo 

111 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

boat  of  the  Clan  Line  bound  for  Quebec  round  the 
Cape;  and  the  boat  was  short  of  its  complement  in 
the  stokehold. 

Ahmed  Ali,  accordingly,  signed  on,  and  sailed  in 
her  and  acquired  more  English  to  help  him  on  in  the 
comfortable  life  he  now  proposed  to  make  for  himself 
in  Canada. 

"But  again  they  would  not  let  me  go  away  into 
the  country,"  he  continued.  "I  told  them  I  was 
British  citizen,  but  it  did  not  help  me;  no,  not  any 
more  than  in  Australia.  They  put  me  on  a  ship  for 
England,  and  I  came  to  Liverpool  steerage  like  a 
genelman.  And  at  Liverpool  I  landed  boldly.  For 
I  was  a  British  citizen." 

"Ah!"  interjected  Mr.  Endicott  proudly.  "Here, 
in  England,  you  see  the  value  of  being  a  British 
citizen." 

"But,  no,  my  genelman.  For  here  there's  no  work 
for  British  citizen.  I  land  and  I  walk  about  and  I 
ask  for  work.  But  everyone  says,  'Why  don't  you 
stay  in  your  own  country?'  So  I  come  away  across 
the  fields,  and  no  man  give  me  one  piece  opium." 

Mr.  Endicott  nodded  his  head  when  the  story  was 
ended. 

"Well,  after  all,  why  don't  you  stay  in  your  own 
country  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Endicott  had  already  had  his  answer  from  the 
Australian,  but  he  was  now  thirsty  for  details,  and 

112 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

his  ears  in  consequence  were  afflicted  with  a  brief  de- 
scription of  British  rule  from  the  Pathan's  point  of 
view. 

"The  all-wise  one  will  pardon  me.  You  keep  the 
peace.  Therefore  we  cannot  stay  in  our  own  country. 
For  we  grow  crowded  and  there  is  no  food.  In  old 
times,  when  we  were  crowded  and  hungry,  we  went 
down  into  the  plains  and  took  the  land  and  the  wives 
of  the  people  of  the  plains  and  killed  the  men.  But 
the  raj  does  not  allow  it.  It  holds  a  sword  between 
us  and  the  plains,  a  sword  with  the  edge  towards  us. 
Neither,  on  the  other  hand,  does  it  feed  us." 

Mr.  Endicott  was  aghast  at  the  perverted  views 
thus  calmly  announced  to  him. 

"But  we  can't  allow  you  to  come  down  into  India 
murdering  and  robbing  and  taking  the  wives." 

The  Asiatic  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  the  law." 

Mr.  Endicott  was  silent.  If  it  were  not  the  law, 
there  were  certainly  a  great  many  precedents.  The 
men  of  the  hills  and  the  people  of  the  plains — yes, 
history  would  say  it  was  the  law.  Mr.  Endicott's 
eyes  were  opening  upon  unknown  worlds.  The  British 
Power  stood  in  India  then  cleaving  a  law  of  nature? 

"Also,  you  send  your  doctors  and  make  cures  when 
the  plague  and  the  cholera  come,  so  that  fewer  people 
die.  Also,  when  the  crops  fail  and  there  is  famine, 
you  distribute  food,  so  that  again  fewer  people  die. 

113 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

No,  there  is  no  room  now  for  us  in  our  own  country 
because  of  you,  and  you  will  not  let  us  into  yours." 

"But  we  can't  do  anything  else,"  cried  Mr.  Endi- 
cott.  "We  keep  the  peace,  we  feed  when  there  is 
famine,  we  send  our  doctors  when  there  is  plague, 
because  that  is  the  law,  alsa — the  law  of  our  race." 

Ahmed  Ali  did  not  move.  He  had  placed  the 
dilemma  before  Endicott.  He  neither  solved  nor  ac- 
cepted it.  Nor  was  Endicott  able  to  find  any  answer. 
There  must  be  one,  since  his  whole  race  was  arraigned 
just  for  what  it  most  prided  itself  upon — oh,  no  doubt 
there  was  an  answer.  But  Mr.  Endicott  could  not 
find  it.  His  imagination,  however,  grasped  the  prob- 
lem. He  saw  those  seven  hundred  tribesmen  travelling 
down  the  passes  to  the  rail  head,  loading  the  Bombay 
train  and  dispersing  upon  the  steamers.  But  he  had 
no  answer,  and  because  he  had  no  answer  he  was  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable.  He  had  lived  for  a  year  in 
the  world  of  politicians  where,  as  a  rule,  there  are 
answers  all  ready-made  for  any  question,  answers 
neatly  framed  in  aphorisms  and  propositions  and  pro- 
vided for  our  acceptance  by  thoughtful  organisations. 
But  he  could  not  remember  one  to  suit  this  occasion. 
He  was  at  a  loss,  and  he  took  the  easy  way  to  rid  him- 
self of  discomfort.  He  dived  into  his  trouser-pocket 
and  fished  out  a  handful  of  silver. 

"Here!  "he  said.  "This'll  help  you  on  a  bit.  Now 
go!" 

114 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

He  stood  aside  from  the  door  and  the  Asiatic  darted 
to  it  with  an  extraordinary  eagerness.  But  once  he 
had  unlatched  it,  once  it  stood  open  to  the  hillside 
and  the  sky,  and  he  free  in  the  embrasure,  he  lost  all 
his  cringing  aspect.  He  turned  round  upon  Mr.  Endi- 
cott. 

"I  go  now,"  he  cried  in  a  high  arrogant  voice.  "But 
I  shall  come  back  very  soon,  and  all  our  peoples  will 
come  with  me,  all  our  hungry  peoples  from  the  East. 
Remember  that,  you  genelman!"  And  then  he  ran 
noiselessly  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  pathway 
to  the  gate. 

He  ran  with  extraordinary  swiftness;  so  that  Endi- 
cott  followed  him  to  the  gate  and  watched  him  go. 
He  flew  down  the  road,  his  shadow  flitting  in  the 
moonlight  like  a  bird.  Once  he  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  seeing  Endicott  at  the  gate  he  leapt  into  the 
air.  A  few  yards  farther  he  doubled  on  his  steps, 
climbed  down  into  the  little  stream  beside  the  lane 
and  took  to  the  hills.  And  in  another  moment  he  was 
not.  The  broad  and  kindly  fell  took  him  to  its  bosom. 
He  was  too  tiny  an  atom  to  stand  out  against  that 
great  towering  slope  of  grass  and  stones.  Indeed,  he 
vanished  so  instantly  that  it  seemed  he  must  have 
dived  into  a  cave.  The  next  moment  Endicott  almost 
doubted  whether  he  had  ever  been  at  all,  whether  he 
was  not  some  apparition  born  of  his  own  troubled 
brain  and  the  Australian's  talk.  But,  as  he  turned 

115 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

back  into  the  house,  he  saw  upon  the  flags  of  the  gar- 
den path  the  marks  of  the  man's  wet,  bare  feet.  Not 
only  had  Ahmed  All  been  to  the  farm-house,  but  he 
had  crossed  the  stream  to  get  there. 

Mr.  Endicott  went  back  to  his  table  in  the  window 
and  seated  himself  in  front  of  his  lighted  candles,  more 
from  habit  than  with  any  thought  of  work.  He  felt 
suddenly  rather  tired.  He  had  not  been  conscious  of 
any  fear  while  Ahmed  Ali  was  in  the  room,  or  indeed 
of  any  strain.  But  strain,  and  perhaps  fear,  there 
had  been.  Certainly  a  vague  fear  began  to  get  hold 
of  him  now.  He  had  a  picture  before  his  eyes  of 
the  Asiatic  leaping  into  the  air  upon  the  road,  and 
then  doubling  for  the  hills.  Why  had  he  fled  so 
fast?" 

"North  of  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn!" 

He  reapeated  the  words  to  himself  aloud.  Was  the 
Australian  right  after  all?  And  would  they  come 
from  the  East — those  hungry  people?  Mr.  Endicott 
seemed  to  feel  the  earth  tremble  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  myriads  of  Asia.  He  bent  his  ear  and  seemed  to 
hear  the  distant  confusion  of  their  approach.  He 
looked  down  at  his  papers  and  flicked  them  contemp- 
tuously. Of  what  use  would  be  his  fine  Bill  for  the 
establishment  of  a  Minimum  Wage?  WTiy,  every- 
thing would  go  down — civilisation,  the  treasures  of 
art,  twenty  centuries  of  man's  painful  growth — just 
as  that  Derby  China  teapot  with  its  wonderful  colour 

116 


of  dark  blue  and  red  and  gold.    The  broken  fragments 
of  the  teapot  became  a  symbol  to  Endicott. 

"And  the  women  would  go  down  too,"  he  thought 
with  a  shiver.  "They  would  take  the  wives." 

He  had  come  to  this  point  in  his  speculations  when 
the  inner  door  opened,  and  the  light  broadened  in  the 
room.  He  heard  Mrs.  Tyson  shuffle  in,  but  he  did  not 
turn  towards  her.  He  sat  looking  out  upon  the  fell. 

"I  found  the  lamp  burning  on  the  hall  table  by  the 
letters,  sir,"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  you  might  want 
it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Endicott  vaguely,  and  he  was 
roused  by  a  little  gasping  cry  which  she  uttered. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Tyson.  Your 
teapot  has  been  knocked  down.  I  went  out.  There 
was  a  man  in  the  room  when  I  came  back.  He  knocked 
it  down.  Of  course  I'll  make  its  value  good,  though 
I  doubt  if  I  can  replace  it." 

Mrs.  Tyson  made  no  answer.  She  placed  the  lamp 
on  the  table.  Endicott  was  still  seated  at  his  table 
in  the  window  with  his  back  to  the  room.  But  he  had 
thrown  back  his  head,  and  he  saw  the  circle  of  re- 
flected light  upon  the  ceiling  shake  and  quiver  as  Mrs. 
Tyson  put  the  lamp  down.  The  glass  chimney,  too, 
rattled  as  though  her  hands  were  shaking. 

"I  am  very  sorry  indeed,"  he  continued. 

Mrs.  Tyson  dropped  upon  her  knees  and  began  to 
pick  up  the  broken  pieces  from  the  floor. 

117 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

"It  doesn't  matter  at  all,  sir,"  she  said,  and  Endi- 
cott  was  surprised  by  the  utter  tonelessness  of  her 
voice.  He  knew  that  she  set  great  store  upon  this 
set  of  china;  she  had  boasted  of  it.  Yet  now  that  it 
was  spoilt  she  spoke  of  it  with  complete  indifference. 
He  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  watched  her  pick- 
ing up  the  fragments — watched  her  idly  until  she 
sobbed. 

"Good  heavens,"  he  cried,  "I  knew  that  you  valued 
it,  Mrs.  Tyson,  but — "  and  then  he  stopped.  For 
she  turned  to  him  and  he  knew  that  there  was  more 
than  the  china  teapot  at  the  bottom  of  her  trouble. 
Her  face,  white  and  shaking  and  wet  with  tears,  was 
terrible  to  see.  There  was  a  horror  upon  it  as  though 
she  had  beheld  things  not  allowed,  and  a  hopeless 
pain  in  her  eyes  as  though  she  was  sure  that  the  ap- 
palling vision  would  never  pass.  But  all  she  did  was 
to  repeat  her  phrase. 

"It  doesn't  matter  at  all,  sir." 

Endicott  started  up  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"What  has  happened,  Mrs.  Tyson?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  sir."  She  knelt  upon  the 
floor  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  wept 
as  Endicott  had  never  dreamed  that  a  human  being 
could  weep.  Fear  seized  upon  him  and  held  him  till 
he  shivered  with  the  chill  of  it.  The  woman  had  come 
in  by  the  inner  door.  In  the  hall,  then,  was  to  be 

118 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

found  the  cause  of  her  horror.  He  lifted  the  lamp 
and  hurried  towards  it,  but  to  reach  the  door  he  had 
to  pass  the  screen  which  Elsie  had  arranged  on  the 
day  of  their  coming.  And  at  the  screen  he  stopped. 
The  terror  which  may  come  to  a  man  once  in  his  life 
clutched  his  heart  so  that  he  choked.  For  behind  the 
screen  he  saw  the  gleam  of  a  girl's  white  frock. 

"Elsie,"  he  cried,  "you  have  been  all  this  while 
here — asleep."  For  he  would  not  believe  the  thing 
he  knew. 

She  was  lying  rather  than  sitting  in  the  low  basket 
chair  in  front  of  the  little  table  on  which  the  chemicals 
were  ranged,  with  her  back  towards  him,  and  her  face 
buried  in  the  padding  of  the  chair.  Endicott  stretched 
his  arm  over  her  and  set  down  the  lamp  upon  the 
table.  Then  he  spoke  to  her  again  chidingly  and 
shaking  her  arm. 

"Elsie,  wake  up!    Don't  be  ridiculous!" 

He  slipped  an  arm  under  her  waist,  and  lifting  her, 
turned  her  towards  him.  The  girl's  head  rolled  upon 
her  shoulders,  and  there  was  a  look  of  such  deadly 
horror  upon  her  face  that  no  pen  could  begin  to  de- 
scribe it.  Endicott  caught  her  to  his  breast. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "My  poor  girl! 
My  poor  girl ! " 

Mrs.  Tyson  had  come  up  behind  him. 

"It  was  he,"  she  whispered,  "the  man  who  was 
here.  He  killed  her!"  And  as  Endicott  turned  his 

119 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

head  towards  the  woman,  some  little  thing  slipped 
from  the  chair  on  to  the  floor  with  a  tiny  rattle.  Endi- 
cott  laid  her  down  and  picked  up  a  small,  yellow, 
round  tablet. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  he  said  with  a  queer  eagerness 
in  his  voice.  The  tablet  came  from  a  small  bottle 
on  the  table  at  the  end  of  his  row  of  chemicals.  It 
was  labelled,  "  Intensifier  "  and  "Poison,"  and  the 
cork  was  out  of  the  bottle.  The  bottle  had  been  full 
that  afternoon.  There  was  more  than  one  tablet 
missing  now. 

"No,  she  killed  herself.  Those  tablets  are  cyanide 
of  potassium.  He  never  touched  her.  Look ! " 

Upon  the  boards  of  the  floor  the  wet  and  muddy 
feet  of  the  Asiatic  had  written  the  history  of  his  move- 
ments beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake.  Here  he 
had  stood  in  front  of  her — not  a  step  nearer.  Mrs. 
Tyson  heard  him  whisper  in  her  daughter's  ear.  "Oh, 
my  dear,  I  thank  God!"  He  sank  upon  his  knees 
beside  her.  Mrs.  Tyson  went  out,  and,  closing  the 
door  gently,  left  him  with  his  dead. 

She  sat  and  waited  in  the  kitchen,  and  after  a  while 
she  heard  him  moving.  He  opened  the  door  into  the 
hall  and  came  out  and  went  slowly  and  heavily  up 
the  stairs  into  Elsie's  room.  In  a  little  while  he  came 
down  again  and  pushed  open  the  kitchen  door.  He 
had  aged  by  twenty  years,  but  his  face  and  his  voice 
were  calm. 

120 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

"You  found  the  lamp  in  the  hall?"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Beside  the  letters  ?  Come !  We  must  under- 
stand this.  My  mind  will  go  unless  I  am  quite  sure." 

She  followed  him  into  the  living-room  and  saw  that 
his  dead  daughter  was  no  longer  there.  She  stood 
aside  whilst,  with  a  patience  which  wrung  her  heart, 
Endicott  worked  out  by  the  footprints  of  the  intruder 
and  this  and  that  sure  sign  the  events  of  those  tragic 
minutes,  until  there  was  no  doubt  left. 

"Elsie  wrote  eight  letters,"  he  said.  "Seven  are 
in  the  hall.  Here  is  the  eighth,  addressed  and  stamped 
upon  the  table  where  she  wrote." 

The  letters  had  to  be  sent  down  the  valley  to  the 
inn  early  in  the  morning.  So  when  she  had  finished, 
she  had  carried  them  into  the  hall — all  of  them,  she 
thought — and  she  had  taken  the  lamp  to  light  her 
steps.  Whilst  she  was  in  the  hall,  and  whilst  all  this 
side  of  the  house  was  in  darkness  Ahmed  Ali  had  slipped 
into  the  room  from  the  lane  by  the  brook.  There  were 
the  marks  of  his  feet  coming  from  the  door. 

"But  was  that  possible?"  Endicott  argued.  "I 
was  on  the  hillside,  the  moon  shining  from  behind 
my  shoulders  on  to  the  house.  There  were  no  shadows. 
It  was  all  as  clear  as  day.  I  must  have  seen  the  man 
come  along  the  little  footpath  to  the  door,  for  I  was 
watching  the  house.  I  saw  the  light  in  this  room  dis- 
appear. Wait  a  moment !  Yes.  Just  after  the  light 
went  out  I  struck  a  match  and  lit  my  pipe." 

121 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

He  had  held  the  match  close  to  his  face  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hands,  and  had  carefully  lit  the  pipe;  and  after 
the  match  had  burned  out,  the  glare  had  remained  for 
a  few  seconds  in  his  eyes.  It  was  during  those  seconds 
that  the  Asiatic  had  crossed  the  lane  and  darted  in 
by  the  door. 

The  next  step  then  became  clear.  Elsie,  counting 
her  letters  hi  the  hall,  had  discovered  that  she  had 
left  one  behind,  she  knew  where  she  had  left  it.  She 
knew  that  the  moonlight  was  pouring  into  the  room; 
and,  leaving  the  lamp  in  the  hall,  she  had  returned 
to  fetch  it.  In  the  moonlit  room  she  had  come  face 
to  face  with  the  Asiatic. 

He  had  been  close  to  the  screen  when  she  met  him, 
and  there  he  had  stood.  No  doubt  he  had  begun  by 
asking  her  for  opium.  No  doubt,  too — perhaps  through 
some  unanswered  cry  of  hers,  perhaps  because  she 
never  cried  out  at  all,  perhaps  on  account  of  a  tense 
attitude  of  terror  not  to  be  mistaken  even  in  that 
vaporous  silvery  light — somehow,  at  all  events,  he 
had  become  aware  that  she  was  alone  in  the  house; 
and  his  words  and  his  demands  had  changed.  She 
had  backed  away  from  him  against  the  wall,  moving 
the  screen  and  the  chair,  and  upsetting  a  book  upon 
the  table  there.  That  was  evident  from  the  disorder 
in  this  corner.  Upon  the  table  stood  Endicott's  chem- 
icals for  developing  his  photographs.  Endicott  saw 
the  picture  with  a  ghastly  distinctness — her  hand 

122 


dropping  for  support  upon  the  table  and  touching  the 
bottles  which  she  had  arranged  herself. 

"Yes,  she  knew  that  that  one  nearest,  the  first  she 
touched  was  the  poison,  and  meant — what?  Safety! 
It's  awful,  but  it's  the  truth.  Very  probably  she 
screamed,  poor  girl.  But  there  was  no  one  to  hear 
her." 

The  noise  of  the  river  leaping  from  rock  pool  to  rock 
pool  had  drowned  any  sound  of  it  which  might  else 
have  reached  to  Endicott's  ears.  The  scream  had 
failed.  In  front  of  her  was  a  wild  and  desperate  Pathan 
from  the  stokehold  of  a  liner.  Under  her  hand  was 
the  cyanide  of  potassium.  Endicott  could  see  her 
furtively  moving  the  cork  from  the  mouth  of  the 
bottle  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  whilst  she  stood 
watching  in  horror  the  man  smiling  at  her  in  silence. 

"Don't  you  feel  that  that  is  just  how  everything 
happened?  Aren't  you  sure  of  it?"  he  asked,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Tyson  with  a  dreadful  appeal  in  his  eyes. 
But  she  could  answer  it  honestly. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  how  it  all  happened,"  and  for  a 
moment  Mr.  Endicott  was  comforted.  But  imme- 
diately afterwards  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  like  a  tired 
man  and  his  fingers  played  upon  the  table. 

"It  would  all  be  over  in  a  few  seconds,"  he  said 
lamentably  to  Mrs.  Tyson.  "But,  oh,  those  seconds! 
They  would  have  been  terrible — terrible  with  pain." 
His  voice  trailed  away  into  silence.  He  sat  still  star- 

123 


NORTH  OF  THE  TROPIC  OF  CAPRICORN 

ing  at  the  table.  Then  he  raised  his  head  towards 
Mrs.  Tyson,  and  his  face  was  disfigured  by  a  smile 
of  torment.  "Hard  luck  on  a  young  girl,  eh,  Mrs. 
Tyson?"  and  the  very  banality  of  the  sentence  made 
it  poignant.  "Everything  just  beginning  for  her — 
the  sheer  fun  of  life.  Her  beauty,  and  young  men, 
and  friends  and  dancing,  the  whole  day  a  burst  of 
music — and  then  suddenly — quite  alone — that's  so 

horrible — quite  alone,  in  a  minute  she  had  to " 

His  voice  choked  and  the  tears  began  to  run  down  his 
face. 

"But  the  man?"  Mrs.  Tyson  ventured. 

"Oh,  the  man!"  cried  Endicott.  "I  will  think  of 
him  to-morrow." 

He  went  up  the  stairs  walking  as  heavily  as  when 
he  had  carried  his  daughter  in  his  arms;  and  he  went 
again  into  Elsie's  room.  Mrs.  Tyson  blew  out  the 
candles  upon  his  writing-table  and  arranged  auto- 
matically some  disordered  sheets  of  foolscap.  They 
were  notes  on  the  great  principle  of  the  Minimum 
Wage. 


124 


ONE  OF  THEM 


ONE  OF  THEM 

At  midnight  on  August  4th,  Poldhu  flung  the  news 
out  to  all  ships,  and  Anthony  Strange,  on  the  Boulotte, 
took  the  message  in  the  middle  of  the  West  Bay.  He 
carried  on  accordingly  past  Weymouth,  and  in  the 
morning  was  confronted  with  the  wall  of  great  breakers 
off  St.  Alban's  Head.  The  little  boat  ran  towards 
that  barrier  with  extraordinary  swiftness.  Strange 
put  her  at  a  gap  close  into  the  shore  where  the  waves 
broke  lower,  and  with  a  lurch  and  a  shudder  she  scooped 
the  water  in  over  her  bows  and  clothed  herself  to  her 
brass  gunwale-top  in  a  stinging  veil  of  salt.  Never 
had  the  Boulotte  behaved  better  than  she  did  that 
morning  in  the  welter  of  the  Race,  and  Strange,  re- 
joicing to  his  very  finger-tips,  forgot  the  news  which 
was  bringing  all  the  pleasure-boats,  great  and  small, 
into  the  harbours  of  the  south,  forgot  even  that  sink- 
ing of  the  heart  which  had  troubled  him  throughout 
the  night.  But  it  was  only  in  the  Race  that  he  knew 
any  comfort.  He  dropped  his  anchor  in  Poole  Har- 
bour by  mid-day,  and  fled  through  London  to  a  house 
he  owned  on  the  Berkshire  Downs. 

There  for  a  few  days  he  found  life  possible.  It  was 
true  there  were  sentries  under  the  railway  bridges, 
but  the  sun  rose  each  day  over  a  country  ripe  for  the 

127 


ONE  OF  THEM 

harvest,  and  the  smoke  curled  from  the  chimneys  of 
pleasant  villages;  and  there  was  no  sign  of  war.  But 
soon  the  nights  became  a  torture.  For  from  midnight 
on,  at  intervals  of  five  to  ten  minutes,  the  troop-trains 
roared  along  the  Thames  Valley  towards  Avonmouth, 
and  the  reproach  of  each  of  them  ceased  only  with  the 
morning.  Strange  leaned  out  of  his  window  looking 
down  the  slopes  where  the  corn  in  the  moonlight  was 
like  a  mist.  Not  a  light  showed  in  the  railway  car- 
riages, but  the  sparks  danced  above  the  funnel  of  the 
engine,  and  the  glare  of  the  furnace  burnished  the 
leaves  of  the  trees.  Soldiers,  soldiers,  soldiers  on  the 
road  to  France.  Then  there  came  a  morning  when, 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  his  house,  he  saw  a  string 
of  horses  in  the  road  and  others  being  taken  from  the 
reaping-machines  in  a  field.  Strange  returned  to  town 
and  dined  with  a  Mrs.  Kenway,  his  best  friend,  and 
to  her  he  unburdened  his  soul. 

"  I  am  ashamed  .  .  .  don't  know  how  to  look  people 
in  the  face.  ...  I  never  thought  to  be  so  utterly 
unhappy.  I  am  thirty  and  useless.  I  cumber  the 
ground." 

The  look  of  surprise  with  which  his  friend  turned 
to  him  hurt  him  like  the  cut  of  a  whip.  "Of  course 
you  can't  help,"  it  seemed  to  say.  "The  world  is  for 
the  strong,  this  year  and  the  next,  and  for  how  many 
more?" 

Strange  had  to  lie  on  his  back  for  some  hours  each 
•  128 


ONE  OF  THEM 

day,  and  he  suffered  off  and  on  always.  But  that  had 
been  his  lot  since  boyhood,  and  he  had  made  light 
of  his  infirmity  and  grown  used  to  it  until  this  4th  of 
August.  He  had  consoled  himself  with  the  knowledge 
that  to  the  world  he  looked  only  rather  delicate.  He 
was  tall,  and  riot  set  apart  from  his  fellows. 

"Now,"  he  said.  "I  wish  that  everybody  knew. 
Yes,  I  wish  that  I  showed  that  service  was  impos- 
sible. To  think  of  us  sitting  here  round  a  dinner- 
table — as  we  used  to !  Oh,  I  know  what  you'll  think ! 
I  have  the  morbid  sensitiveness  of  sick  men.  Per- 
haps you  are  right." 

"I  don't  think  it  at  all,"  she  said,  and  she  set  her- 
self to  comfort  him. 

Strange  went  from  the  dinner-party  to  his  club. 
There  was  the  inevitable  crowd,  fighting  the  cam- 
paign differently,  cutting  up  the  conquered  countries, 
or  crying  all  was  lost.  Some  of  them  had  written  to 
the  papers,  all  were  somehow  swollen  with  importance 
as  though  the  war  was  their  private  property.  Strange 
began  to  take  heart. 

"They  are  not  ashamed,"  he  thought.  "They 
speak  to  me  as  if  they  expected  I  should  be  here.  Per- 
haps I  am  a  fool." 

A  friend  sat  down  by  his  side. 

"Cross  went  yesterday,"  he  said.  "George  Crawley 
was  killed  at  Mons.  Of  course  you  have  heard." 

Strange  had  not  heard,  and  there  rose  before  his 
129 


ONE  OF  THEM 

eyes  suddenly  a  picture  of  George  Crawley,  the 
youngest  colonel  in  the  army,  standing  on  the  kerb 
in  St.  James's  Street  and  with  uplifted  face  blasphem- 
ing to  the  skies  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  because 
of  a  whiskered  degenerate  dandy  with  a  frilled  shirt 
to  whom  he  had  just  before  been  introduced.  But 
his  friend  was  continuing  his  catalogue. 

"Chalmers  is  training  at  Grantham.  He's  with  the 
new  army.  Linton  has  joined  the  Flying  Corps.  Every 
day  someone  slips  quietly  away.  God  knows  how 
many  of  them  will  come  back." 

Strange  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  club. 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  his  friend  cried  after 
him. 

"No,  I  am  going  back  to  my  boat." 

"For  how  long?" 

"Till  the  war's  over." 

The  resolution  had  been  taken  that  instant.  He 
loved  the  Eoulotte  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  For  on  board  of  her  he  was  altogether  a  man. 
She  was  fifty-five  feet  long  over  all,  fourteen  feet  in 
beam,  twenty-five  tons  by  Thames  measurement,  and 
his  debt  to  her  was  enormous.  He  had  found  her  in 
a  shed  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  re-coppered  her,  given  her 
a  new  boiler,  fixed  her  up  with  forced  draught,  and 
taken  out  for  himself  after  a  year's  hard  work  a  mas- 
ter's certificate.  He  took  her  over  to  Holland,  and 
since  her  bows  worked  like  a  concertina  in  the  heavy 

130 


ONE  OF  THEM 

seaway  between  Dover  and  Dieppe  he  strengthened 
them  with  cross-pieces.  He  never  ceased  to  tinker 
with  her,  he  groused  at  her,  and  complained  of  her, 
and  sneered  at  her,  and  doted  on  her  in  the  true  sailor's 
fashion.  For  some  years  past  life  had  begun  for  him 
in  the  spring,  when  he  passed  Portland  Bill  bound 
westward  for  Fowey  and  Falmouth  and  the  Scillies, 
and  had  ended  in  the  late  autumn,  when  he  pulled 
the  Boulotte  up  on  the  mud  of  Wootton  Creek.  Now 
he  turned  to  her  in  his  distress,  and  made  a  most  miser- 
able Odyssey.  He  spent  a  month  in  the  estuary  above 
Salcombe,  steamed  across  to  Havre,  went  down 
through  the  canals  to  Marseilles  in  the  autumn  of 
1914,  and  sought  one  of  the  neutral  coasts  of  the  Medi- 
terranean. Here,  where  men  wore  buttons  in  their 
coats  inscribed,  "Don't  speak  to  me  of  the  war," 
he  fancied  that  he  might  escape  from  the  shame  of 
his  insufficiency.  He  came  to  a  pleasant  harbour, 
with  a  broad  avenue  of  trees  behind  the  quay,  and 
a  little  ancient  town  behind  the  trees. 

"I  will  drop  my  anchor  here,"  he  said,  "until  the 
war  ends";  and  he  remained,  speaking  to  no  one  but 
his  crew,  sleeping  in  his  little  cabin,  and  only  going 
on  shore  to  buy  his  newspapers  and  take  his  coffee. 
And  after  five  weeks  the  miracle  began  to  happen. 
He  was  sitting  on  his  deck  one  morning  reading  a 
local  newspaper.  At  right  angles  to  him  half  a  dozen 
steamers,  moored  in  a  line,  with  their  sterns  to  the 

131 


ONE  OF  THEM 

quay  and  their  anchors  out  forward,  were  loading 
with  fruit.  He  looked  up  from  his  paper,  and  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  nearest  ship,  which  was  showing 
him  her  starboard  broadside.  He  looked  first  of  all 
carelessly,  then  with  interest,  finally  he  laid  his  paper 
down  and  walked  forward.  The  boat  had  received 
on  the  lower  part  of  her  hull,  up  to  the  Plimsoll  line, 
a  brilliant  fresh  coat  of  red  paint.  So  far,  of  course, 
there  was  nothing  unusual,  but  forward,  halfway  be- 
tween her  bows  and  her  midships,  and  again  aft  on 
her  quarter,  she  had  a  broad  perpendicular  line  of 
the  same  red  paint  standing  out  vividly  from  the 
black  of  her  upper  plates.  Strange  called  to  his  en- 
gineer, John  Shawe,  and  pointed  to  the  streaks. 

"What  do  you  make  of  them?"  he  asked. 

Shawe  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Very  wasteful  it  do  seem,  sir,"  he  said;  and  to 
a  casual  glance  it  did  indeed  appear  as  if  the  paint 
had  been  allowed,  through  some  carelessness  on  deck, 
to  drip  down  the  side  at  those  two  points.  Strange, 
however,  was  not  satisfied.  The  bands  of  scarlet  were 
too  regular,  too  broad.  He  had  himself  rowed  out 
in  his  dinghy  past  the  steamer's  bows. 

"That  will  do,  Harry,"  he  said.  "We  can  go 
back." 

On  the  port  bows  and  quarter  of  the  steamer  he 
had  seen  the  same  vivid  streaks.  Strange  spoke  again 
to  John  Shawe. 

132 


"Waste  isn't  the  explanation,  that's  sure.  You  go 
about  the  town  a  bit,  don't  you?  You  know  some 
of  the  men  about  the  port.  You  might  find  out  for 
me — quietly,  you  know — what  you  can  about  that 
boat";  and  the  phrase  "quietly,  you  know,"  made 
all  at  once  a  different  man  of  John  Shawe.  Strange 
at  this  time  was  really  more  moved  by  curiosity  than 
suspicion,  but  he  did  use  the  phrase,  and  John  Shawe, 
a  big,  simple,  south  countryman,  who  knew  his  engine 
and  very  little  else,  swelled  at  once  into  a  being  of 
mystery,  full  of  brow-twisting  wisdom  and  porten- 
tously sly. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  knowing  whisper. 
"I  know  my  dooty.  It  shall  be  done."  He  put  on 
his  best  brass-buttoned  coat  that  evening,  and  went 
down  the  three  steps  of  the  gangway  ladder  with  a 
secret  air,  a  sleuth;  but  he  brought  back  his  news 
nevertheless. 

"All  those  boats,  sir,  are  chartered  by  a  German 
here  named  Rehnke." 

"But  some  of  them  are  English.  They  are  flying 
the  red  flag,"  cried  Strange  in  revolt. 

"It's  God's  truth,  sir,  and  here's  more  of  it.  Every 
one  of  them's  bound  for  England,  consigned  to  Eng- 
lish firms.  One's  for  Manchester,  two  for  Cardiff, 
one  for  Liverpool." 

"But  it's  impossible.  It's  trading  with  the  enemy," 
Strange  exclaimed. 

133 


ONE  OF  THEM 

"That  don't  apply  to  the  enemy  in  neutral  coun- 
tries, they  say.  Oh,  there's  a  deal  of  dirty  work  going 
on  in  England.  Will  you  come  on  deck?" 

Strange  nodded.  The  saloon  door  opened  into  the 
cockpit,  and  the  cabin  roof  was  the  deck  of  the  after- 
part  of  the  Boulotte.  They  climbed  by  a  little  ladder 
out  of  the  cockpit.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  a  night 
of  full  moon. 

"Look,  sir,"  said  Shawe. 

The  English  boat  had  sailed  that  afternoon.  The 
starboard  side  of  its  neighbour  was  now  revealed. 
Strange  looked  through  his  glasses  and  he  saw.  Over 
the  bows  of  that  tramp  steamer  at  midnight  a  man 
was  suspended  on  a  plank,  and  he  was  painting  a 
broad,  perpendicular,  red  streak. 

Strange  thought  over  his  discovery  lying  on  his 
back  in  the  saloon.  Distinguishing  marks  on  a  row 
of  ships  chartered  by  a  German — there  was  just  one 
explanation  for  them !  Strange  did  not  even  whisper 
it  to  John  Shawe,  but  he  went  ashore  the  next  morn- 
ing and  called  upon  the  British  Consul. 

His  card  was  taken  into  a  room  where  two  men 
were  speaking.  At  once  the  conversation  stopped, 
and  it  was  not  resumed.  There  was  not  a  whisper, 
nor  the  sound  of  any  movement.  Strange  had  a  pic- 
ture in  his  mind  of  two  men  with  their  heads  together 
staring  at  his  card  and  exchanging  an  unspoken  ques- 
tion. Then  the  clerk  appeared  again. 

134 


ONE  OF  THEM 

"Mr.  Taylor  will  see  you  with  pleasure,"  he  said. 

As  Strange  entered  the  room  a  slim,  elderly,  in- 
different gentleman,  seated  at  a  knee-hole  table,  gazed 
vaguely  at  him  through  his  spectacles  and  offered  him 
a  chair. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Strange?"  he  asked, 
and  since  Strange  hesitated,  he  turned  towards  his 
companion. 

"This  is  Major  Slingsby,"  said  the  Consul.  "He 
will  not  be  in  your  way." 

Major  Slingsby,  a  square,  short,  rubicund  man  of 
forty,  with  the  face  of  a  faun,  bowed,  and,  without 
moving  from  his  chair,  seemed,  nevertheless,  to  re- 
move himself  completely  from  the  room. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Strange.  He  had  not  an  idea 
that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  the  two  shrewdest  men 
in  those  parts.  To  him  they  were  just  a  couple  of 
languid  people  whom  it  was  his  duty  to  arouse,  and 
he  told  his  story  as  vividly  as  he  could. 

"And  what  do  you  deduce  from  these  mysterious 
signs?"  asked  the  Consul. 

Strange's  answer  was  prompt. 

"German  submarines  in  the  Mediterranean." 

"Oh!  And  why  not  the  Channel?"  asked  Mr. 
Taylor.  "These  steamers  are  on  their  way  there." 

To  that  question  there  was  no  reply.  Strange  rose. 
"I  thought  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  I  had 
noticed,"  he  said  stiffly. 

135 


"Thank  you,  yes.  And  I  am  very  grateful,"  replied 
Taylor. 

Major  Slingsby,  however,  followed  Strange  out  of 
the  room. 

"Will  you  lunch  with  me?"  he  asked,  and  the  ques- 
tion sent  the  blood  rushing  into  Strange's  face.  He 
swung  between  his  instinct  to  hide  his  head  from  any 
man  who  was  doing  service  and  his  craving  to  con- 
verse with  a  fellow-countryman.  The  craving  won. 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  he  stammered. 

"Right.  It  is  half-past  twelve  now.  Shall  we  say 
one  at  the  Cafe  de  Rome?" 

As  they  sat  against  the  wall  by  the  window  of  the 
cafe  Slingsby  talked  of  ordinary  matters,  which  any 
one  of  those  in  the  chairs  outside  upon  the  pavement 
might  overhear  and  be  none  the  wiser.  But  he  talked 
sagely,  neither  parading  mysteries  nor  pretending  dis- 
closures. He  let  the  mere  facts  of  companionship 
and  nationality  work,  and  before  luncheon  was  over 
Strange  was  won  by  them.  He  longed  to  confide,  to 
justify  himself  before  a  fellow-citizen  of  his  miserable 
inertness.  Over  the  coffee,  indeed,  he  would  have 
begun,  but  Slingsby  saw  the  torrent  of  confession 
coming. 

"Do  you  often  lunch  here?"  he  said  quickly.  "I 
do  whenever  I  happen  to  be  in  the  town.  Sit  in  this 
window  for  an  hour  and  you  will  see  all  the  town 
paraded  before  you  like  a  show,  its  big  men  and  little 

136 


ONE  OF  THEM 

men,  its  plots  and  its  intrigues.  There,  for  instance," 
and  he  nodded  towards  a  large,  stout  person  with  a 
blonde  moustache,  "  is  Rehnke — yes,  that's  your  man. 
Take  a  good  look  at  him." 

Strange  looked  at  the  German  hard.  He  looked 
also  towards  a  youth  who  had  been  sitting  for  the 
last  hour  over  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  newspaper  out- 
side the  window.  Slingsby  interpreted  the  look. 

"He's  all  right.  He's  trying  to  listen,  of  course. 
Most  foreigners  do,  whether  they  understand  your 
language  or  not.  And  he  doesn't — not  a  word  of  it. 
I  have  been  watching  him.  However,  we  may  as  well 
go,  for  I  would  very  much  like  you  to  show  me  your 
little  boat." 

Strange,  eager  and  enthusiastic,  jumped  up  from 
the  table. 

"Rather,"  he  cried.  "She's  not  big,  of  course,  but 
she  can  keep  the  sea,  especially  since  I  strengthened 
her  bows." 

"Oh,  you  have  done  that,  have  you?"  said  Slingsby, 
as  he  paid  the  bill.  "That's  interesting." 

They  crossed  the  boulevard  to  the  quay  and  went 
on  board  the  Boulotte.  Every  inch  of  brass  on  her, 
from  the  stanchions  round  the  deck  to  the  engine- 
room  telegraph,  flashed,  and  she  was  varnished  and 
white  and  trim  like  a  lady  fresh  from  her  maid. 

"What  can  you  do  with  your  forced  draught?" 
asked  Slingsby. 

137 


ONE  OF  THEM 

"Thirteen,"  replied  Strange  proudly.  "With  a 
good  wind  astern  fourteen.  Once  I  went  out  past  the 
Needles  buoy "  and  off  he  went  in  a  glowing  ac- 
count of  a  passage  to  Cherbourg  at  the  end  of  a  stormy 
September.  Slingsby  never  once  interrupted  him. 
He  followed  meekly  from  the  rudder  to  the  bow,  where 
he  examined  with  some  attention  the  famous  struts 
and  cross-pieces. 

"You  have  got  a  wireless,  I  see,"  he  said,  looking 
up  to  the  aerial,  which,  slackened  and  disconnected, 
dangled  from  the  masthead. 

"Yes.  But  it's  a  small  affair.  However,  I  can 
hear  four  hundred  miles  if  the  night's  still.  I  can 
only  send  seventy." 

Slingsby  nodded,  and  the  two  men  returned  to  the 
saloon.  There,  at  last,  over  a  whisky  and  soda,  Strange 
was  encouraged  to  unload  his  soul.  The  torture  of 
the  August  nights  on  the  Berkshire  Downs  above 
the  Thames  Valley,  the  intolerable  sense  of  useless- 
ness;  the  feeling  that  he  wore  a  brand  of  shame  upon 
his  forehead  for  all  men  to  see,  and  the  poignancy  of 
the  remorse  which  had  shrivelled  him  when  a  wounded 
soldier  from  Ypres  or  Le  Cateau  limped  past  him  in 
the  street;  all  tumbled  from  his  lips  in  abrupt,  half- 
finished  sentences. 

"Therefore  I  ran  away,"  he  said. 

Slingsby  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"So  that's  it,"  he  said,  and  he  laughed  in  a  friendly 
138 


ONE  OF  THEM 

fashion.  "Do  you  know  that  we  have  all  been  greatly 
worried  about  you?  Oh,  you  have  caused  a  deuce  of 
a  fluttering  I  can  tell  you." 

Strange  flushed  scarlet. 

"I  was  suspected!"  he  cried.  "Good  God!"  It 
just  wanted  that  to  complete  his  utter  shame.  He 
had  been  worse  than  useless;  he  had  given  trouble. 
He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed,  in  the  depths  of  abase- 
ment. Then  other  words  were  spoken  to  him: 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  bring  your  boat  to 
Marseilles?" 

"You  want  it,  then?"  said  Strange. 

"I  can  use  you,"  said  Slingsby.  "What's  more, 
you  are  necessary." 

Strange,  with  a  buzzing  head,  got  out  his  chart 
from  a  locker  and  spread  it  on  the  table.  He  took 
paper  and  a  lead  pencil  and  his  compasses.  He  marked 
his  course  and  measured  it. 

"Forty-seven  hours'  steaming  and  six  hours  to  get 
up  steam.  It's  four  o'clock  now,  and  the  day's  Tues- 
day. I  can  be  at  Marseilles  on  Thursday  afternoon 
at  four." 

"I  have  done  a  good  day's  work,"  said  Major 
Slingsby,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  he  meant  it.  Slings- 
by was  an  intelligence  officer  as  well  as  an  officer  of 
intelligence,  and  since  he  had  neither  boats  to  dispose 
of  nor  money  to  buy  them  with,  Anthony  Strange 
was  a  Godsend  to  him.  "But  I  don't  want  you  until 

139 


ONE  OF  THEM 

to-day  week.  I  shall  want  a  little  time  to  make  ar- 
rangements with  the  French." 

The  Boulotte  steamed  round  the  point  at  three 
o'clock  on  the  appointed  afternoon.  The  pilot  took 
her  through  the  Naval  Harbour  into  the  small  basin 
where  the  destroyers  lie,  and  by  half-past  she  was 
berthed  against  the  quay.  Strange  had  been  for  the 
best  part  of  two  days  on  his  bridge,  but  at  eleven  he 
was  knocking  at  a  certain  door  without  any  inscrip- 
tion upon  it  in  the  Port  office,  and  he  was  admitted 
to  a  new  Major  Slingsby  in  a  khaki  uniform,  with  red 
tabs  on  the  collar,  and  clerks  typewriting  for  dear  life 
in  a  tiny  room. 

"Hallo,"  said  Slingsby.  He  looked  into  a  letter- 
tray  on  the  edge  of  his  desk  and  took  a  long  envelope 
from  it  and  handed  it  to  Strange.  "You  might  have 
a  look  at  this.  I'll  come  on  board  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Meanwhile,  if  I  were  you  I  should  go  to  bed, 
though  I  doubt  if  you'll  get  much  sleep." 

The  reason  for  that  doubt  became  more  and  more 
apparent  'as  the  evening  wore  on.  In  the  first  place, 
when  Strange  returned,  he  found  workmen  with  drills 
and  hammers  and  rivets  spoiling  the  white  foredeck 
of  his  adored  Boulotte.  For  a  moment  he  was  inclined, 
like  Captain  Hatteras  when  his  crew  cut  down  his 
bulwarks  for  firewood,  to  stand  aside  and  weep,  but 
he  went  forward,  and  when  he  saw  the  work  which 
was  going  on  his  heart  exulted.  Then  he  went  back 

140 


ONE  OF  THEM 

to  the  saloon,  but  as  he  stretched  himself  out  upon 
the  cushions  he  remembered  the  envelope  in  his  pocket. 
It  was  stamped  "On  His  Majesty's  Service,"  and  it 
contained  the  announcement  that  one  Anthony  Strange 
had  been  granted  a  commission  as  sub-lieutenant  in 
the  Royal  Naval  Volunteer  Reserve.  After  that  sleep 
was  altogether  out  of  the  question.  There  was  the 
paper  to  be  re-read  at  regular  intervals  lest  its  mean- 
ing should  have  been  misunderstood.  And  when  its 
meaning  was  at  last  firmly  and  joyfully  fixed  in 
Strange's  mind  there  was  the  paper  itself  to  be  guarded 
and  continually  felt,  lest  it  should  lose  itself,  be  stolen, 
or  evaporate  into  air.  Towards  midnight,  indeed,  he 
did  begin  to  doze  off,  but  then  a  lighter  came  alongside 
and  dumped  ten  tons  of  Welsh  steam  coal  on  board, 
all  that  he  could  hold,  it's  true,  but  that  gave  him  ten 
days'  steaming  at  ordinary  draught.  And  at  eight 
o'clock  to  the  minute  Slingsby  hailed  him  from  the 
quay. 

"You  will  go  back  now  to  your  old  harbour,"  he 
said.  "You  have  been  a  little  cruise  down  the  coast, 
that's  all.  Just  look  out  for  a  sailing  schooner  called 
the  Santa  Maria  del  Pilar.  She  ought  to  turn  up  in 
seven  days  from  now  to  take  on  board  a  good  many 
barrels  of  carbonate  of  soda.  I'll  come  by  train  at 
the  same  time.  If  she  arrives  before  and  takes  her 
cargo  on  board,  you  can  wire  to  me  through  the  Consul 
and  then — act  on  your  own  discretion." 

141 


ONE  OF  THEM 

Strange  drew  a  long  breath,  and  his  eyes  shone. 

"But  she  won't,  I  think,"  said  Slingsby.  "By  the 
way,  you  were  at  Rugby  with  Russell  of  my  regi- 
ment, weren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  know  Cowper,  who  was  admiral  out 
here?" 

"Yes,  he's  my  uncle." 

"Exactly." 

Strange  smiled.  It  was  clear  that  a  good  many 
inquiries  must  have  been  made  about  him  over  the 
telegraph  wires  during  the  last  week. 

"Well,  that's  all,  I  think,"  said  Slingsby.  "You'll 
push  off  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  good  luck." 

But  there  was  one  further  ceremony  before  the 
Boulotte  was  ready  for  sea.  The  small  crew  was  signed 
on  under  the  Naval  Discipline  Act.  Then  she  put 
out,  rounded  the  point,  and  headed  for  her  destination 
over  a  smooth  sunlit  sea,  with,  by  the  way,  an  extra 
hand  on  board  and  a  fine  new  capstan  on  her  fore- 
deck.  Two  days  later  she  was  moored  in  her  old  posi- 
tion, and  Strange  went  to  bed.  The  excitement  was 
over,  a  black  depression  bore  him  down;  he  was  deadly 
tired,  and  his  back  hurt  him  exceedingly.  What  was 
he  doing  at  all  with  work  of  this  kind  ?  If  he  had  to 
"act  on  his  own  discretion,"  could  he  do  it  with  any 
sort  of  profit?  Such  questions  plagued  him  for  two 
days  more,  whilst  he  lay  and  suffered.  But  then  relief 

142 


ONE  OF  THEM 

came.  He  slept  soundly  and  without  pain,  and  rose 
the  next  morning  in  a  terror  lest  the  Santa  Maria  del 
Pilar  should  have  come  and  gone.  He  went  up  on 
to  the  deck  and  searched  the  harbour  with  his  glasses. 
There  was  but  one  sailing  boat  taking  in  cargo,  and 
she  a  brigantine  named  the  Richard,  with  the  Nor- 
wegian flag  painted  on  her  sides.  Strange  hurried 
to  the  Consul,  and  returned  with  a  mind  at  ease. 
The  Santa  Maria  del  Pilar  had  not  yet  sailed  in  be- 
tween the  moles.  Nor  did  she  come  until  the  next 
afternoon,  by  which  time  Slingsby  was  on  board  the 
Boulotte. 

"There  she  is,"  said  Strange  in  a  whisper  of  excite- 
ment, looking  seawards.  She  sailed  in  with  the  sunset 
and  a  fair  wind,  a  white  schooner  like  a  great  golden 
bird  of  the  sea,  and  she  was  nursed  by  a  tug  into  a 
berth  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  harbour.  Slingsby 
and  Strange  dined  at  the  Cafe  de  Rome  and  came  on 
board  again  at  nine.  The  great  globes  of  electric 
light  on  their  high  pillars  about  the  quays  shone  down 
upon  the  still,  black  water  of  the  harbour.  It  was 
very  quiet.  From  the  cockpit  of  the  Boulotte  the  two 
men  looked  across  to  the  schooner. 

"I  think  there's  a  lighter  alongside  of  her,  isn't 
there?"  said  Slingsby. 

Strange,  whose  eyesight  was  remarkable,  answered: 

"Yes,  a  lighter  loaded  with  barrels." 

"Some  carbonate  of  soda,"  said  Slingsby,  with  a 
143 


ONE  OF  THEM 

grin.    They  went  into  the  cockpit,  leaving  the  door 
open. 

It  was  a  hot  night,  and  in  a  cafe  beyond  the  trees 
a  band  was  playing  the  compelling  music  of  Louise. 
Strange  listened  to  it,  deeply  stirred.  Life  had  so 
changed  for  him  that  he  had  risen  from  the  depths  dur- 
ing the  last  weeks.  Then  Slingsby  raised  his  hand. 

"Listen!" 

With  the  distant  music  there  mingled  now  the 
creaking  of  a  winch.  Strange  extinguished  the  light, 
and  both  men  crept  out  from  the  cockpit.  The  sound 
came  from  the  Santa  Maria  del  Pilar,  and  they  could 
see  the  spar  of  her  hoisting  tackle  swing  out  over  the 
lighter  and  inboard  over  the  ship's  deck. 

"She's  loading,"  said  Strange,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,"  answered  Slingsby;  "she's  loading."  And 
his  voice  purred  like  a  contented  cat. 

He  slept  on  a  bed  made  up  in  the  saloon  that  night, 
Strange  in  his  tiny  cabin,  and  at  nine  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast,  they  saw  the  Santa 
Maria  del  Pilar  make  for  the  sea. 

"We  ought  to  follow,  oughtn't  we?"  said  Strange 
anxiously. 

"There's  no  hurry." 

"But  she'll  do  nine  knots  in  this  breeze."  Strange 
watched  her  with  the  eye  of  knowledge  as  she  leaned 
over  ever  so  slightly  from  the  wind.  "She  might  give 
us  the  slip." 

144 


ONE  OF  THEM 

Slingsby  went  on  eating  unconcernedly. 

"She  will,"  he  answered.  "We  are  not  after  her, 
my  friend.  Got  your  chart?" 

Strange  fetched  it  from  the  locker  and  spread  it 
out  on  the  table. 

"Do  you  see  a  small  island  with  a  lighthouse?" 

"Yes." 

"Four  miles  west-south-west  of  the  lighthouse. 
Got  it?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  get  to  that  point?" 

Strange  measured  his  course. 

"Five  to  five  and  a  half  hours  forced  draught." 

"Good.    Suppose  we  start  at  six  this  evening." 

The  Boulotte  went  away  to  the  minute.  At  eight 
it  began  to  grow  dark,  but  no  steaming  light  was 
hoisted  on  the  mast,  and  no  sidelamps  betrayed  her 
presence.  In  the  failing  light  she  became  one  with 
the  sea  but  for  the  tiniest  wisp  of  smoke  from  her 
chimney,  and  soon  the  night  hid  that.  A  lantern 
flashed  for  a  while  here  and  there  on  the  forward  deck 
in  the  centre  of  a  little  group,  and  then  Slingsby  came 
back  to  Strange  at  the  wheel." 

"It's  all  right,"  he  whispered  softly. 

Nights  at  sea!  The  cool,  dark  tent  of  stars,  the 
hiss  and  tinkle  of  waves  against  the  boat's  side,  the 
dinghy,  slung  out  upon  the  davits,  progressing  above 
the  surface  of  the  water,  the  lamp  light  from  the  com- 

145 


ONE  OF  THEM 

pass  striking  up  on  the  brasswork  of  the  wheel  and 
the  face  of  the  steersman;  to  nights  at  sea  Strange 
owed  all  the  spacious  moments  of  his  crippled  life. 
But  this  night  was  a  sacred  thing.  He  was  admitted 
to  the  band  of  the  young  strong  men  who  serve,  like 
a  novice  into  the  communion  of  a  church;  and  his 
heart  sang  within  his  breast  as  he  kept  the  Eoulotte 
to  her  course.  At  a  quarter  past  eleven  he  rang  the 
telegraph  and  put  the  indicator  to  "slow."  Five 
minutes  later  he  stopped  the  engine  altogether.  Four 
miles  away  to  the  north-eastward  a  light  brightened 
and  faded. 

"We  are  there/'  he  said,  and  he  looked  out  over 
an  empty  sea. 

Under  Slingsby's  orders  he  steamed  slowly  round 
in  a  circle,  ever  increasing  the  circumference,  for  an 
hour,  and  then  the  new  hand — who,  by  the  way,  was 
a  master  gunner — crept  aft. 

"There  it  is,  sir." 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  port  bow  a  dark  mass 
floated  on  the  sea.  The  Boulotte  slid  gently  along- 
side of  it.  It  was  a  raft  made  of  barrels  lashed  to- 
gether. 

"We  have  seen  those  barrels  before,  my  friend," 
said  Slingsby,  his  nose  wrinkling  up  in  a  grin  of  de- 
light. Before  daybreak  the  work  was  done.  Fifty 
empty  barrels  floated  loose;  there  was  a  layer  of  heavy 
oil  over  the  sea  and  a  rank  smell  in  the  air. 

146 


ONE  OF  THEM 

"Now,"  said  Slingsby,  in  a  whisper,  "shall  we 
have  any  luck,  I  wonder?" 

He  went  forward.  The  capstan  head  had  been  re- 
moved, and  in  its  place  sat  a  neat  little  automatic 
gun,  which  could  fling  two  hundred  and  seventy  three- 
pound  shells  six  thousand  yards  in  a  minute.  For 
the  rest  of  that  night  the  Boulotte  lay  motionless  with- 
out a  light  showing  or  a  word  spoken.  And  just  as 
the  morning  came,  in  the  very  first  unearthly  grey 
of  it,  a  wave  broke — a  long,  placid  roller  which  had 
no  right  to  break  in  that  smooth,  deep  sea.  Slingsby 
dipped  his  hand  into  the  cartridge  box  and  made 
sure  that  the  band  ran  free;  the  gunner  stood  with 
one  hand  on  the  elevating  wheel,  the  other  on  the 
trigger;  eight  hundred  yards  away  from  the  Boulotte 
there  was  suddenly  a  wild  commotion  of  the  water, 
and  black  against  the  misty  grey  a  conning  tower  and 
a  long,  low  body  of  steel  rose  into  view.  U-whatever- 
its-number  was  taken  by  surprise.  The  whole  affair 
lasted  a  few  seconds.  With  his  third  shot  the  gunner 
found  the  range,  and  then,  planting  his  shells  with 
precision  in  a  level  line  like  the  perforations  of  a  post- 
age stamp,  he  ripped  the  submarine  from  amidships 
to  its  nose.  Strange  had  a  vision  for  a  second  of  a 
couple  of  men  trying  to  climb  out  from  the  conning 
tower,  and  then  the  nose  went  up  in  the  air  like  the 
snout  of  some  monstrous  fish,  and  the  sea  gulped  it 
down. 

147 


ONE  OF  THEM 

"One  of  'em/'  said  Slingsby.  "But  we  won't  men- 
tion it.  Lucky  you  saw  those  red  streaks,  my  friend. 
If  a  destroyer  had  come  prowling  up  this  coast  in- 
stead of  the  harmless  little  Boulotte  there  wouldn't 
have  been  any  raft  on  the  sea  or  any  submarine  just 
here  under  the  sea.  What  about  breakfast?" 

Strange  set  the  boat's  course  for  Marseilles,  and 
the  rest  of  that  voyage  was  remarkable  only  for  a 
clear  illustration  of  the  difference  between  the  ama- 
teur and  the  professional.  For  whereas  Strange  could 
not  for  the  life  of  him  keep  still  during  one  minute, 
Slingsby,  stretched  at  his  ease  on  the  saloon  sofa,  be- 
guiled the  time  with  quotations  from  the  "Bab  Bal- 
lads" and  "Departmental  Ditties." 


148 


RAYMOND   BYATT 


RAYMOND   BYATT 

Dorman  Royle  was  the  oddest  hero  for  such  an 
adventure.  He  followed  the  profession  of  a  solicitor, 
and  the  business  he  did  was  like  himself,  responsible 
and  a  trifle  heavy.  No  piratical  dashes  into  the  Law 
Courts  in  the  hope  of  a  great  haul  were  encouraged 
in  his  office.  Clients  as  regular  in  their  morals  as  in 
their  payments  alone  sought  his  trustworthy  and 
prosaic  advice.  Dorman  Royle,  in  a  word,  was  the 
last  man  you  would  think  ever  to  feel  the  hair  lifting 
upon  his  scalp  or  his  heart  sinking  down  into  a  fathom- 
less pit  of  terror.  Yet  to  him,  nevertheless,  these  sen- 
sations happened.  It  may  be  that  he  was  specially 
chosen  just  because  of  his  unflighty  qualities;  that, 
at  all  events,  became  his  own  conviction.  Certainly 
those  qualities  stood  him  in  good  stead.  This,  however, 
is  surmise.  The  facts  are  beyond  all  dispute. 

In  June,  Royle  called  upon  his  friend  Henry 
Groome,  and  explained  that  he  wanted  Groome's 
country  house  for  the  summer. 

"But  it's  very  lonely,"  said  Groome. 

"I  don't  mind  that,"  replied  Dorman  Royle,  and 
his  face  beamed  with  the  smile  at  once  proud  and 
sheepish  and  a  little  fatuous  which  has  only  meant 
one  thing  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

151 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"You  are  going  to  be  married!"  said  Groome. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  guess?"  asked  Royle; 
but  it  must  be  supposed  that  there  had  been  some 
little  note  of  regret  or  jealousy  in  his  friend's  voice, 
for  the  smile  died  away,  and  he  nodded  his  head  in 
comprehension. 

"Yes,  old  man.  That's  the  way  of  it.  It's  the 
snapping  of  the  old  ties — not  a  doubt.  I  shall  meet 
you  from  time  to  time  at  the  club  in  the  afternoon, 
and  you  will  dine  with  us  whenever  you  care  to.  But 
we  shall  not  talk  very  intimately  any  more  of  matters 
which  concern  us.  We  shall  be  just  a  trifle  on  our 
guard  against  each  other.  A  woman  means  that — 
yes.  However,  I  do  what  I  can.  I  borrow  your  house 
for  my  honeymoon." 

Groome  heard  the  speech  with  surprise.  He  had 
not  expected  to  be  understood  with  so  much  accuracy. 
He  seemed  to  be  looking  at  a  new  man — a  stranger, 
almost  certainly  no  longer  his  friend,  but  a  man  who 
had  put  friendship  behind  him  and  had  reached  out 
and  grasped  a  treasure  which  had  transfigured  all 
his  world. 

"And  whom  are  you  going  to  marry?"  Groome 
asked;  and  the  answer  surprised  him  still  more. 

"InaFayle." 

"Ina — you  don't  mean ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Royle,  and  the  note  of  his  voice 
was  a  challenge.  But  Groome  did  not  take  it  up. 

152 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

Ina  Fayle,  of  course,  he  knew  by  sight  and  by  repu- 
tation, as  who  in  London  at  that  time  did  not?  She 
was  a  young  actress  who  had  not  been  content  to  be 
beautiful. 

"Yes,  she's  a  worker,"  suddenly  said  Royle.  "She 
has  had  to  work  since  she  was  sixteen,  and  what  she 
is,  sheer  industry  has  made  her.  Now  she  is  going  to 
give  up  all  her  success." 

Groome  wondered  for  a  moment  how  in  the  world 
she  could  bring  herself  to  do  it.  A  girl  of  twenty- 
three,  she  had  gained  already  so  much  success  that 
she  must  find  the  world  a  very  pleasant  place.  She 
had  the  joy  of  doing  superbly  the  work  she  loved,  and 
a  reward  besides,  tremendous  because  so  immediate, 
in  the  adoration  of  the  public,  in  the  great  salary  after 
she  had  been  poor,  and  while  she  was  young  enough 
to  enjoy  every  penny  of  it.  Groome  was  still  won- 
dering when  once  more  Royle  broke  in  upon  him. 

"Yes.  It's  the  sort  of  renunciation  which  is  much 
more  surprising  in  a  girl  than  it  would  be  in  a  man. 
For  the  art  of  the  stage  is  of  much  the  same  stuff  as 
a  woman's  natural  life,  isn't  it?  I  mean  that  beauty, 
grace,  the  trick  of  wearing  clothes,  the  power  of  swift 
response  to  another's  moods,  play  the  same  large  part 
in  both.  But,  you  see,  she  has  character,  as  well  as 
gifts — that's  the  explanation." 

Royle  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Come  and  see  her,  will  you?" 
153 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"Now?" 

"Yes.  I  promised  that  I  would  bring  you  round," 
and  as  he  got  up  from  his  chair  he  added:  "Oh,  by 
the  way,  as  to  your  house,  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
Ina  has  a  dog — a  black  spaniel — do  you  mind?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Groome,  and  he  put  on  his 
hat. 

The  two  men  walked  northwards,  Royle  at  once 
extremely  shy  and  inordinately  proud.  They  crossed 
the  Marylebone  Road  into  Regent's  Park. 

"That's  her  house,"  said  Royle,  "the  one  at  the 
end  of  the  terrace." 

Ina  Fayle  lived  with  a  companion;  she  was  not 
quite  so  tall  as  Groome,  who  had  only  seen  her  upon 
the  stage,  expected  her  to  be.  He  had  thought  to  find 
a  woman  a  trifle  cadaverous  and  sallow.  But  she  had 
the  clear  eyes  and  complexion  of  a  child,  and  her  wealth 
of  fair,  shining  hair  spoke  of  a  resplendent  health. 
She  came  across  the  room  and  took  Groome  into  a 
window. 

"You  know  Dorman  very  well,  don't  you?  I  want 
to  show  you  something  I  have  bought  for  him.  Oh, 
it's  nothing — but  do  you  think  he  will  like  it?" 

She  was  simple  and  direct  in  her  manner,  with  more 
of  the  comrade  than  the  woman.  She  showed  Groome 
a  gold  cigarette-case. 

"Of  course  it  will  do.  But  you  have  already  made 
him  a  better  wedding-gift  than  that,"  said  Groome. 

154 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"I?"  Her  forehead  puckered  in  a  frown.  "What 
gift?" 

"A  very  remarkable  gift  of  insight,  which  he  never 
had  before." 

She  coloured  a  little  with  pleasure,  and  her  eyes 
and  her  voice  softened  together. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  she  answered.  "One  takes  a 
great  deal.  It  is  pleasant  to  give  something  in  return." 

Dorman  Royle  and  Ina  Fayle  were  duly  married 
towards  the  end  of  the  month,  and  began  their  life 
together  in  the  house  which  Groome  had  lent  them. 

It  stood  on  the  top  of  a  hill  amongst  bare  uplands 
above  the  valley  of  the  Thames,  in  a  garden  of  roses 
and  green  lawns.  But  the  house  was  new,  and  the 
trees  about  it  small  and  of  Groome's  own  planting, 
so  that  every  whisper  of  wind  became  a  breeze  up 
there,  and  whistled  about  the  windows.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  wind  was  still  there  was  nowhere  a  place 
more  quiet,  and  the  slightest  sound  which  would  never 
have  been  heard  in  a  street  rang  out  loud  with  the 
presumption  of  a  boast.  Especially  this  was  so  at 
night.  The  roar  of  the  great  trains  racing  down  to 
the  west  cleft  the  air  like  thunder;  yet  your  eyes  could 
only  see  far  away  down  in  the  river-valley,  a  tiny 
line  of  bright  lights  winking  amongst  the  trees.  In 
this  spot  they  stayed  for  a  week,  and  then  Ina  showed 
her  husband  a  telegram  summoning  her  to  the  bed- 
side of  her  mother. 

155 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"It's  not  very  serious,  as  you  see,"  she  said.  "But 
she  wants  me,  and  I  think  that  for  a  day  or  two  I 
must  go." 

She  went  the  next  morning.  Dorman  Royle  was 
left  alone,  and  was  thoroughly  bored  until  late  on  the 
night  before  Ina's  return.  It  was,  in  fact,  not  far 
from  twelve  o'clock  when  Royle  began  to  be  interested. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  library  when  he  heard  very  dis- 
tinctly through  the  open  window  a  metallic  click. 
The  sound  was  unmistakable.  Somewhere  in  the 
garden  a  gate  had  been  opened  and  allowed  to  swing 
back.  What  he  had  heard  was  the  latch  catching  in 
the  socket.  He  was  interested  in  his  book,  and  for 
a  moment  paid  no  heed  to  the  sound.  But  after  a 
second  or  two  he  began  to  wonder  who  at  this  hour 
in  that  lonely  garden  had  opened  a  gate.  He  sat  up 
and  listened  but  the  sound  was  not  repeated.  He 
was  inclined  to  think,  clear  and  distinct  though  the 
sound  had  been,  that  he  had  imagined  it,  when  his 
eyes  fell  upon  Ina's  black  spaniel.  He  could  no  longer 
believe  in  any  delusion  of  his  senses.  For  the  dog  had 
heard  the  sound  too.  He  had  been  lying  curled  up 
on  the  varnished  boards  at  the  edge  of  the  room,  his 
black,  shining  coat  making  him  invisible  to  a  careless 
glance.  Now  he  was  sitting  up,  his  ears  cocked  and 
his  eyes  upon  the  window  with  the  extraordinary  in- 
tentness  which  dogs  display. 

Dorman  Royle  rose  from  his  chair. 
156 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"Come,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  but  the  spaniel  did 
not  move.  He  sat  with  his  nose  raised  and  the  lip  of 
the  lower  jaw  trembling,  and  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
the  window.  Royle  walked  softly  to  the  door  of  the 
room.  It  opened  on  to  a  hall  paved  with  black  and 
white  stone  which  took  up  the  middle  part  of  the 
house.  Upon  his  right  a  door  opened  on  to  the  drive, 
on  his  left  another  led  out  to  a  loggia  and  a  terrace. 
Royle  opened  this  second  door  and  called  again  in  a 
whisper  to  the  spaniel: 

"Come,  Duke!    Seek  him  out!" 

This  time  the  dog  obeyed,  running  swiftly  past  his 
legs  into  the  open  air.  Royle  followed.  It  was  a 
bright,  moonlit  night,  the  stars  hardly  visible  in  the 
clear  sky.  Royle  looked  out  across  the  broad  valley 
to  the  forest-covered  Chilterns,  misty  in  the  distance. 
Not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring;  the  trees  stood  as 
though  they  had  been  metal.  Three  brick  steps  led 
from  the  terrace  to  the  tennis-lawn.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  tennis-lawn  a  small  gate  opened  on  to  a 
paddock.  It  was  this  gate  which  had  opened  and 
swung  to.  But  there  was  no  one  now  on  the  lawn  or 
in  the  paddock,  and  no  tree  stood  near  which  could 
shade  an  intruder.  Royle  looked  at  the  dog.  He 
stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  terrace  staring  out  over  the 
lawn;  Royle  knew  him  to  be  a  good  house-dog,  yet 
now  not  a  growl  escaped  him.  He  stood  waiting  to 
leap  forward — yes,  but  waiting  also  for  a  friendly 

157 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

call  from 'a  familiar  voice  before  he  leapt  forward; 
and  as  Royle  realised  that  a  strange  thought  came  to 
him.  He  had  been  lonely  these  last  days;  hardly  a 
moment  had  passed  but  he  had  been  conscious  of  the 
absence  of  Ina;  hardly  a  moment  when  his  heart  had 
not  ached  for  her  and  called  her  back.  What  if  he 
had  succeeded?  He  played  with  the  question  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  quiet  moonlight  upon  the  paved 
terrace.  It  was  she  who  had  sped  across  the  pad- 
dock twelve  hours  before  her  time  and  opened  the 
gate.  She  had  come  so  eagerly  that  she  had  not 
troubled  to  close  it.  She  had  let  it  swing  sharply  to 
behind  her.  She  was  here  now,  at  his  side.  He  reached 
out  a  hand  to  touch  her,  and  take  hers;  and  sud- 
denly he  became  aware  that  he  was  no  longer  playing 
with  a  fancy — that  he  believed  it.  She  was  really 
here,  close  to  him.  He  could  not  see  her — no.  But 
that  was  his  fault.  There  was  too  much  dross  in  Dor- 
man  Royle  as  yet  for  so  supreme  a  gift.  But  that 
would  follow — follow  with  the  greater  knowledge  of 
her  which  their  life  together  would  bring. 

"Come,  Duke,"  he  said,  and  he  went  back  into 
the  house  and  sat  late  in  the  smoking-room,  filled  with 
the  wonder  of  this  new,  strange  life  that  was  to  be 
his.  A  month  ago  and  now!  He  measured  the  dif- 
ference of  stature  between  the  Dorman  Royle  of  those 
days  and  the  Dorman  Royle  of  to-day,  and  he  was 
sunk  in  humility  and  gratitude.  But  a  few  hours 

158 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

later  that  night  his  mood  changed.  He  waked  up 
in  the  dark,  and,  between  sleep'and  consciousness,  was 
aware  of  some  regular,  measured  movement  in  the 
room.  In  a  moment  he  became  wide  awake,  and  un- 
derstood what  had  aroused  him.  The  spaniel,  lying 
on  the  coverlet  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  was  thumping 
with  his  tail — just  as  if  someone  he  loved  was  by  him, 
fondling  him.  Roylesatup;  the  bed  shook  and  creaked 
under  him,  but  the  dog  paid  no  heed  at  all.  He  went 
on  wagging  his  tail  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the 
room.  Someone  must  be  there,  and  suddenly  Royle 
cried  aloud,  impetuously,  so  that  he  was  surprised  to 
hear  his  own  voice: 

"Ina!  Ina!"  and  he  listened,  with  his  arms  out- 
stretched. 

But  no  answer  came  at  all.  It  seemed  that  he  had 
rashly  broken  a  spell.  For  the  dog  became  still.  Royle 
struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  candle  by  his  bed, 
straining  his  eyes  to  the  corners  of  the  room.  But 
there  was  no  one  visible. 

He  blew  out  the  candle  and  lay  down  again,  and 
the  darkness  blotted  out  all  the  room.  But  he  could 
not  sleep;  and — and — he  was  very  careful  not  to 
move.  It  was  not  fear  which  kept  him  still — though 
fear  came  later — but  a  thrilling  expectation.  He  was 
on  the  threshold  of  a  new  world.  He  had  been  made 
conscious  of  it  already;  now  he  was  to  enter  it — to 
see.  But  he  saw  nothing.  Only  in  a  little  while  the 

159 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

spaniel's  tail  began  once  more  to  thump  gently  and 
regularly  upon  the  bed.  It  was  just  as  if  the  dog 
had  waited  for  him  to  go  to  sleep  before  it  once  more 
resumed  its  invisible  communion.  This  tune  he  spoke 
to  the  dog. 

"Duke!"  he  whispered,  and  he  struck  a  match. 
The  spaniel  was  lying  upon  his  belly,  his  neck  stretched 
out,  his  jaws  resting  upon  his  paws.  "Duke,  what  is 
it?" 

The  animal  raised  its  head  and  turned  a  little  to 
one  side.  The  human  voice  could  not  have  said  more 
clearly: 

"What's  the  matter?    You  are  interrupting  us." 

The  match  burned  out  between  his  forefinger  and 
thumb.  Royle  did  not  light  another.  He  laid  him- 
self down  again.  But  the  pleasant  fancy  born  in  him 
upon  the  moonlit  terrace  had  gone  altogether  from 
his  thoughts.  There  was  something  to  him  rather 
sinister  in  the  notion  of  the  dog  waiting  for  him  to  go 
to  sleep  and  then,  without  moving  from  its  place — • 
so  certain  it  was  of  the  neighbourhood  of  some  unseen 
being  to  whom  it  gave  allegiance — resuming  a  strange 
companionship.  He  no  longer  thought  of  Ina — Ina 
as  the  visitor.  He  began  to  wonder  how  the  dog  had 
come  to  her,  who  had  owned  it  before  her.  He  plunged 
into  vague  and  uncomfortable  surmises.  No  doubt 
the  darkness,  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  his  own 
sleeplessness  had  their  effects.  He  lay  in  a  strange 

160 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

exaltation  of  spirit,  which  deepened  slowly  and  grad- 
ually into  fear.  Yes,  he  was  afraid  now.  He  had  a 
sense  of  danger,  all  the  more  alarming  because  it  was 
reasonless.  There  were  low  breathings  about  his 
bed;  now  some  one  bent  over  him,  now  a  hand  lightly 
touched  the  coverlet.  He,  the  most  unimpressionable 
of  men,  rejoiced  when  a  grey  beam  of  light  shot  through 
a  chink  of  the  curtain  and  spread  like  a  fan  into  the 
room.  He  turned  over  on  his  side  and  slept  until 
the  sun  was  high. 

In  the  clear  light  of  a  July  morning  Royle's  thoughts 
took  on  a  more  sober  colour.  None  the  less,  he  made 
a  cautious  inquiry  or  two  that  day  from  the  gardener, 
and  from  the  shops  in  the  village.  The  answer  in  each 
case  was  the  same. 

"The  house  had  no  history,  no  traditions.  It  had 
only  been  built  ten  years  back.  There  was  nothing 
but  a  field  then  where  the  house  now  stood.  Even 
the  'trees  had  been  planted  at  the  time  the  house  was 
built." 

Indeed,  the  assurance  was  hardly  needed;  for  the 
house  was  new  and  bright  as  a  hospital.  There  was 
hardly  a  dark  corner  anywhere,  certainly  nowhere  a 
harbour  for  dark  thoughts.  Royle  began  to  revert 
to  his  original  fancy;  and  when  that  evening  his  wife 
returned,  he  asked  her: 

"Last  night,  just  before  midnight — what  were  you 
doing?" 

161 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

They  were  together  in  a  small  library  upon  the  first 
floor,  a  room  with  big  windows  opening  upon  the  side 
of  the  house.  The  night  was  hot  and  the  windows 
stood  open,  and  close  to  one  of  them  at  a  little  table 
Ina  was  writing  a  letter.  She  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"Last  night — just  before  midnight?    I  was  asleep." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

Some  note  of  urgency  in  his  voice  made  her  smile 
waver.  It  disappeared  altogether  as  she  gazed  at 
him. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "I  am  sure;" 
and  then,  after  a  little  pause  and  with  a  slight  but 
a  noticeable  hesitation,  she  added:  "Why  do  you 
ask?" 

Dorman  Royle  crossed  over  to  her  side  and  most 
unwisely  told  her: 

"Because  at  midnight  the  gate  into  the  paddock 
was  opened  and  swung  to  without  any  hand  to  touch 
it.  I  had  been  thinking  of  you,  Ina — wanting  you — 
and  I  wondered." 

He  spoke  half  in  jest,  but  there  was  no  jesting  reply. 
For  a  little  while,  indeed,  Ina  did  not  answer  him  at 
all.  He  was  standing  just  a  step  behind  her  as  she 
sat  at  the  table  in  the  window,  so  that  he  could  not 
see  her  face.  But  her  body  stiffened. 

"It  must  have  been  a  delusion,"  she  said,  and  he 
walked  forward  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  table 
facing  her. 

1G2 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"If  so,  it  was  a  delusion  which  the  dog  shared." 

She  did  not  change  her  attitude;  she  did  not  stir. 
From  head  to  foot  she  sat  as  though  carved  in  stone. 
Nor  did  her  face  tell  him  anything.  It  became  a  mask; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  she  forced  all  expression  out 
of  it,  by  some  miracle  of  self-command.  But  her 
eyes  shone  more  than  usually  big,  more  than  usually 
luminous;  and  they  held  their  secret  too,  if  they  had 
a  secret  to  hold.  Then  she  leaned  forward  and  touched 
his  sleeve. 

"Tell  me!"  she  said,  and  she  had  trouble  to  find 
her  voice;  and,  having  found  it,  she  could  not  keep 
it  steady. 

"I  am  sorry,  Ina,"  he  said.  "You  are  frightened. 
I  should  not  have  said  a  word." 

"But  you  have,"  she  replied.  "Now  I  must  know 
the  rest." 

He  told  her  all  that  there  was  to  tell.  Reduced  to 
the  simple  terms  of  narrative,  the  story  sounded, 
even  to  him,  thin  and  unconvincing.  There  was  so 
little  of  fact  and  event,  so  much  of  suggestion  and 
vague  emotion.  But  his  recollection  was  still  vivid, 
and  something  of  the  queer  terror  which  he  had  felt 
as  he  had  lain  in  the  darkness  was  expressed  in  his 
aspect  and  in  the  vibrations  of  his  voice.  So,  at  all 
events,  he  judged.  For  he  had  almost  expected  her 
to  laugh  at  the  solemnity  of  his  manner,  and  yet  Ina 
did  not  so  much  as  smile.  She  listened  without  even 

163 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

astonishment,  paying  close  heed  to  every  word,  now 
and  then  nodding  her  head  in  assent,  but  never  in- 
terrupting. He  was  vaguely  reminded  of  clients  lis- 
tening to  his  advice  in  some  grave  crisis  of  their  affairs. 
But  when  he  had  finished  she  made  no  comment. 
She  just  sat  still  and  rigid,  gazing  at  him  with  baffling 
and  inscrutable  eyes. 

Dorman  Royle  rose.  "So  it  wasn't  you,  Ina,  who 
returned  last  night?"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  which  was  low,  but 
now  quite  clear  and  steady.  "I  slept  soundly  last 
night — much  more  soundly  than  I  usually  do." 

"That's  strange,"  said  Royle. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Ina  answered.  "I  think  it 
follows.  I  was  let  alone.  Yes,  that's  all  of  a  piece 
with  your  story,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

Dorman  Royle  sprang  up,  and  at  his  abrupt  move- 
ment his  wife's  face  flashed  into  life  and  fear. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  he  cried,  and  she  shrank 
as  if  she  realised  now  what  a  dangerous  phrase  she 
had  allowed  her  lips  to  utter. 

"Nothing,  nothing!"  she  exclaimed,  and  she  set 
herself  obstinately  to  her  letter. 

Royle  looked  at  the  clock. 

"It's  late,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  the  dog  out  for  a 
run." 

He  went  downstairs  and  out  at  the  front  of  the 
house.  To-night  the  air  was  mistier,  and  the  moon 

164 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

sailed  through  a  fleece  of  clouds.  Royle  walked  to 
a  gate  on  the  edge  of  the  hill.  It  may  have  been  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  whistled  to  the  dog  and 
turned  back  to  the  house.  From  the  gate  to  the  house 
was  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  and  as  he  walked  back 
first  one,  then  another,  of  the  windows  of  the  library 
upon  the  first  floor  came  within  his  view.  These 
windows  stood  wide  open  to  the  night,  and  showed 
him,  as  in  a  miniature,  this  and  that  corner  of  the 
room,  the  bookcases,  the  lamps  upon  the  tables,  and 
the  top-rails  of  the  chair-backs,  small  but  very  clear. 
The  one  window  which  he  could  not  as  yet  see  at  all 
was  that  in  which  his  wife  sat.  For  it  was  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room  and  almost  over  the  front  door.  Royle 
came  within  view  of  it  at  last,  and  stopped  dead.  He 
gazed  at  the  window  with  amazement.  Ina  was  still 
sitting  at  the  writing-table  in  the  window,  but  she 
was  no  longer  alone.  Just  where  he  himself  had  stood 
a  few  minutes  before,  a  step  behind  her  shoulder,  an- 
other man  was  now  standing — a  man  with  a  strong, 
rather  square,  dark  face,  under  a  mane  of  black  hair. 
He  wore  a  dinner-jacket  and  a  black  tie,  and  he  was 
bending  forward  and  talking  to  Ina  very  earnestly. 
Ina  herself  sat  with  her  hands  pressed  upon  her  face 
and  her  body  huddled  in  her  chair,  not  answering, 
but  beaten  down  by  the  earnestness  of  the  stranger's 
pleading.  Thus  they  appeared  within  the  frame  of 
the  window,  both  extraordinarily  distinct  to  Royle 

165 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

watching  outside  there  in  the  darkness.  He  could 
see  the  muscles  working  in  the  stranger's  face  and  the 
twitching  of  Ina's  hands,  but  he  could  hear  nothing. 
The  man  was  speaking  in  too  low  a  voice. 

Royle  did  not  move. 

"But  I  know  the  man,"  he  was  saying  to  himself. 
"I  have  seen  him,  at  all  events.  Where?  Where?" 
And  suddenly  he  remembered.  It  was  at  the  time  of 
a  General  Election.  He  had  arrived  at  King's  Cross 
Station  from  Scotland  late  one  night,  and,  walking 
along  the  Marylebone  Road,  he  had  been  attracted 
by  a  throng  of  people  standing  about  a  lamp-post, 
and  above  the  throng  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a 
man  addressing  it  had  been  thrown  into  a  clear  light. 
He  had  stopped  for  a  moment  to  listen;  he  had  asked 
a  question  of  his  neighbour.  Yes,  the  speaker  was 
one  of  the  candidates,  and  he  was  the  man  who  now 
stood  by  Ina's  side. 

Royle  tried  to  remember  the  name,  but  he  could 
not.  Then  he  began  to  wonder  whence  the  stranger 
had  come.  It  was  a  good  two  miles  to  the  village. 
How,  too,  had  he  managed  to  get  into  the  house? 
The  servants  had  gone  to  bed  an  hour  before  Royle 
had  come  out.  The  hall-door  stood  open  now.  He 
had  left  it  open.  The  man  must  have  been  waiting 
some  such  opportunity — as  he  had  done  no  doubt  last 
night.  Such  a  passion  of  anger  and  jealousy  flamed 
up  in  Royle  as  he  had  never  known.  He  ran  into  the 

166 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

hall  and  shot  the  bolts.  He  hurried  up  the  stairs  and 
flung  open  the  door.  Ina  was  still  sitting  at  the  table, 
but  she  had  withdrawn  her  hands  from  her  face,  and, 
but  for  her,  the  room  was  empty. 

"Ina!"  he  cried,  and  she  turned  to  him.  Her  face 
was  quiet,  her  eyes  steady;  there  was  a  smile  upon 
her  lips. 

"Yes?" 

She  sat  just  as  as  he  had  left  her.  Looking  at  her 
in  his  bewilderment,  he  almost  came  to  believe  that 
his  eyes  had  tricked  him,  that  thus  she  had  sat  all 
this  while.  Almost!  For  the  violence  of  his  cry  had 
been  unmistakable,  and  she  did  not  ask  for  the  reason 
of  it.  He  was  out  of  breath,  too,  his  face  no  doubt 
disordered;  yet  she  put  no  question;  she  sat  and 
smiled — tenderly.  Yes,  that  was  the  word.  Dorman 
Royle  stood  in  front  of  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  happiness  was  crumbling  down  in  ruins  about  him. 

"Ina!"  he  repeated,  and  the  dog  barked  for  ad- 
mission underneath  the  window.  The  current  of  his 
thoughts  was  altered  by  the  sound.  His  passion  fell 
away  from  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  dived  under 
ice. 

"Ina!" 

JHe  sat  quietly  down  in  the  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  that  table. 

"You  have  had  that  dog  some  time?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

167 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"How  did  you  get  it?" 

The  answer  came  quite  steadily  but  slowly,  and 
after  a  long  silence. 

"A  friend  gave  it  to  me." 

"Who?" 

There  was  no  longer  any  smile  upon  the  girl's  face. 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  was  there  any  fear.  Her  eyes 
never  for  a  second  wavered  from  his. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  am  curious,"  replied  Royle.    "Who?" 

"  Raymond  Byatt." 

The  name  conveyed  nothing  to  Royle.  He  did  not 
even  recollect  it.  But  he  spoke  as  if  it  were  quite 
familiar  to  him. 

"Raymond  Byatt?  Didn't  he  stand  for  Parliament 
once  in  Marylebone  ?  " 

"Yes.    He  was  defeated." 

Royle  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Well,  I  had  better  go  down  and  let  the  dog  in," 
he  said,  and  he  went  to  the  door,  where  he  turned  to 
her  again. 

"But  if  he's  a  friend  of  yours,  you  should  ask  him 
down,"  he  remarked.  Ina  drew  herself  up  in  her 
chair,  her  hands  clinging  to  the  arms  of  it. 

"He  killed  himself  a  fortnight  ago." 

The  answer  turned  Royle  into  a  figure  of  stone. 
The  two  people  stared  at  one  another  across  the  room 
in  a  dreadful  silence;  and  it  seemed  as  if,  having  once 

168 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

spoken,  Ina  was  forced  by  some  terrible  burden  of 
anguish  to  speak  yet  more. 

"Yes,"  she  continued  in  a  whisper,  "a  week  before 
we  married." 

"Did  you  care  for  him?" 

Ina  shook  her  head. 

"Never." 

There  were  words  upon  the  tip  of  Royle's  tongue 
— words  of  bitterness : 

"It  was  he  who  came  back  last  night.  He  came 
back  for  you.  He  was  with  you  to-night — the  mo- 
ment after  I  left  you.  I  saw  him."  But  he  knew  they 
would  be  irrevocable  words,  and  with  an  effort  he  held 
his  tongue.  He  went  downstairs  and  let  the  dog 
in.  When  he  returned  to  the  library  Ina  was  stand- 
ing up. 

"I'll  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  pleaded  for 
silence.  "I  am  tired.  I  have  had  a  long  journey;" 
and  he  let  her  go  without  a  word. 

He  sat  late  himself,  wondering  what  in  the  morn- 
ing he  should  do.  The  house  had  become  horrible  to 
him.  And  unless  Ina  told  him  all  there  was  to  tell, 
how  could  they  go  on  side  by  side  anywhere?  When 
he  went  upstairs  Ina  was  in  bed  and  asleep.  He  left 
the  door  wide  open  between  her  room  and  his  and 
turned  in  himself.  But  he  slept  lightly,  and  at  some 
tune  that  night,  whilst  it  was  still  dark,  he  was  roused 
to  wakefulness.  A  light  was  burning  in  his  wife's 

169 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

room,  and  through  the  doorway  he  could  see  her. 
She  had  in  her  hand  the  glass  of  water  which  usually 
stood  on  a  little  table  beside  her  bed,  and  she  was 
measuring  out  into  it  from  a  bottle  some  crystals. 
He  knew  that  they  were  chloral  crystals,  for,  since 
she  slept  badly,  she  always  kept  them  by  her.  He 
watched  her  shaking  out  the  dose,  and  as  he  watched 
such  a  fear  clutched  at  his  heart  as  made  all  the  other 
terrors  of  that  night  pale  and  of  no  account.  Ina 
was  measuring  out  deliberately  enough  chloral  into 
that  tumbler  of  water  to  kill  a  company.  Very  cau- 
tiously he  drew  himself  up  in  his  bed.  He  heard  the 
girl  stifle  a  sob,  and  as  she  waited  for  the  crystals  to 
dissolve  her  face  took  on  a  look  of  grief  and  despair 
which  he  had  never  in  his  life  seen  before.  He  sprang 
out  of  bed,  and  in  an  instant  was  at  her  side.  With 
a  cry  Ina  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips,  but  his  hand  was 
already  upon  her  wrist. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  and  she  struggled  to  free 
herself.  But  he  took  the  glass  from  her,  and  suddenly 
all  her  self-command  gave  way  in  a  passion  of  tears. 
She  became  a  frightened  child.  Her  hands  sought 
him,  she  hid  her  face  from  him,  and  she  would  not 
let  him  go. 

"Ina,"  he  whispered,  "what  were  you  doing?" 
"I  was  following,"  she  said.    "I  had  to.    He  stands 
by  me,  always,  commanding  me."     And  she  shook 
like  one  in  a  fever. 

170 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

"Good  God!"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  I  have  fought,"  she  sobbed,  "but  he's  win- 
ning. Yes,  that's  the  truth.  Sooner  or  later  I  shall 
have  to  follow." 

"Tell  me  everything,"  said  Royle. 

"No." 

But  he  held  her  close  within  the  comfort  of  his  arms 
and  wrestled  for  her  and  for  himself.  Gradually  the 
story  was  told  to  him  in  broken  sentences  and  with 
long  silences  between  them,  during  which  she  lay  in 
his  clasp  and  shivered. 

"He  wanted  me  to  marry  him.  But  I  wouldn't. 
He  had  a  sort  of  power  over  me — the  power  of  a  bully 
who  cares  very  much,"  she  said;  and  a  little  later 
she  gave  the  strangest  glimpse  of  the  man.  He  would 
hardly  have  believed  it;  but  he  had  seen  the  man, 
and  the  story  fitted  him. 

"I  was  in  Paris  for  a  few  days — alone  with  my 
maid.  I  went  to  see  a  play  which  was  to  be  trans- 
lated for  me.  He  was  in  the  same  hotel,  quite  alone 
as  I  was.  It  was  after  I  had  kept  on  refusing  him. 
He  seemed  horribly  lonely — that  was  part  of  his  power. 
I  never  saw  anyone  who  lived  so  completely  in  lone- 
liness. He  was  shut  away  in  it  as  if  in  some  prison  of 
glass  through  which  you  could  see  but  not  hear.  It 
made  him  tragic — pitiful.  I  went  up  to  him  in  the 
lounge  and  asked  if  we  couldn't  be  just  friends,  since 
we  were  both  there  alone.  You'll  never  imagine  what 

171 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

he  did.  He  stared  at  me  without  answering  at  all. 
He  just  walked  away  and  went  to  the  hotel  manager. 
He  asked  him  how  it  was  that  he  allowed  women  in 
his  hotel  who  came  up  and  spoke  to  strangers." 

"Ina— he  didn't !"  cried  Royle. 

"He  did.  Luckily  the  manager  knew  me.  And 
that  night,  though  he  wouldn't  speak  to  me  in  the 
lounge,  he  wrote  me  a  terrible  letter.  Then,  when 
you  and  I  were  engaged,  he  killed  himself — just  a 
week  before  we  married.  He  tried  to  do  it  twice.  He 
went  down  to  an  hotel  at  Aylesbury  and  sat  up  all 
night,  trying  to  do  it.  But  the  morning  came  and  he 
had  failed.  The  servant  who  called  him  found  him 
sitting  hi  his  bedroom  at  the  writing-table  at  which 
he  had  left  him  the  night  before;  and  all  night  he  had 
written  not  one  word.  Next  day  he  went  to  another 
hotel  on  the  South  Coast,  and  all  that  night  he  waited. 
But  in  the  morning — after  he  had  been  called — quite 

suddenly  he  found  the  courage — yes "  and  Ina's 

voice  trailed  away  into  silence.  In  a  little  while  she 
began  again. 

"Ever  since  he  has  been  at  my  side,  saying  'I  did 
it  because  of  you.  You  must  follow.'  There  was  the 
chloral  always  ready.  I  found  myself  night  after 
night,  when  you  were  asleep,  reaching  out  my  hand 
obediently  towards  it — towards  it " 

"Except  last  night,"  Royle  interrupted,  suddenly 
finding  at  last  the  explanation  of  some  words  of  hers 

172 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

which  had  puzzled  him,   "when  he  came  here,  and 
you  were  away." 

"And  I  slept  soundly  in  consequence,"  she  agreed. 
"Yes.  But  to-night — if  you  hadn't  been  here — I 
should  have  obeyed  altogether." 

"But  I  am  here,"  said  Royle,  gently;  and,  looking 
up,  he  saw  that  the  morning  had  come.  He  rose  and 
pulled  aside  the  curtains  so  that  the  clear  light  flooded 
the  room. 

"Ina,  do  something  for  me,"  he  pleaded,  and  she 
understood.  She  took  the  bottle  of  crystals,  poured 
them  into  the  basin,  and  set  the  tap  running. 

"Stay  with  me,"  she  said.  "Now  that  I  have  told 
you,  I  believe  that  I  shall  sleep,  and  sleep  without 
fear.  When  you  came  into  the  room  before  I  was 
only  pretending." 

She  nestled  down,  and  this  time  she  did  sleep.  It 
seemed  to  Royle  that  the  victory  was  won. 

Some  months  later,  however,  a  client  talking  over 
his  affairs  with  Royle  in  his  private  office  mentioned 
Raymond  Byatt's  name.  Royle  leaned  forward  with 
a  start. 

"You  knew  that  man?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  client  with  a  laugh.  "He  forged 
my  name  for  a  thousand  pounds — and  not  mine  alone. 
He  was  clever  with  his  pen.  But  he  came  to  the  end 
of  his  tether  at  last.  He  saved  himself  from  penal 
servitude  by  bio  whig  his  brains  out." 

173 


RAYMOND  BYATT 

Royle  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Absolutely." 

And  Royle  sat  down  suddenly. 

"That's  the  best  piece  of  news  I  have  ever  had  in 
my  life,"  he  cried.  Now  for  a  sure  thing  the  victory 
was  his.  He  went  home  that  evening  in  the  highest 
spirits. 

"What  do  you  think,  Ina,  I  discovered  to-day?" 
he  blurted  out.  "You'll  be  as  glad  to  hear  as  I  was. 
Raymond  Byatt  didn't  kill  himself  for  you,  after  all. 
He  did  it  to  save  himself  from  a  prosecution  for  for- 
gery." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Ina  replied: 

"Indeed!"  and  that  was  all.  But  Dorman  Royle, 
to  his  perplexity,  detected  a  certain  unexpected  iciness 
in  her  voice.  Somehow  that  new  insight  which  Groome 
had  discovered  in  him  had  on  this  evening  failed  him 
altogether. 


174 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 


It  was  late  in  the  season,  and  for  the  best  part  of 
a  week  the  weather  had  been  disheartening.  Even 
to-day,  though  there  had  been  no  rain  since  last  night, 
the  mists  swirled  in  masses  over  a  sunless  valley  green 
as  spring,  and  the  hill-sides  ran  with  water.  It  pleased 
Dennis  Challoner,  however,  to  believe  that  better 
times  were  coming.  He  stood  at  a  window  of  the 
Riffelalp  Hotel,  and  imagined  breaches  in  the  dark 
canopy  of  cloud. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  hopefully,  "the  weather  is  taking 
up." 

He  was  speaking  to  a  young  girl  whose  name  he 
did  not  know,  a  desultory  acquaintance  made  during 
the  twelve  hours  which  he  had  passed  at  the  hotel. 

"I  believe  it  is,"  she  answered.  She  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  two  men  who  were  sitting  disconso- 
lately on  a  bench.  "Those  are  your  men,  aren't  they? 
So  you  climb  with  guides!" 

There  was  a  note  of  deprecation  in  her  voice  quite 
unmistakable.  She  was  trying  not  to  show  scorn, 
but  the  scorn  was  a  little  too  strong  for  her.  Chal- 
loner laughed. 

177 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"I  do.  With  guides  I  can  go  where  I  like,  when  I 
like.  I  don't  have  to  hunt  for  companions  or  make 
arrangements  beforehand.  I  have  climbed  with  the 
Blauers  for  five  years  now,  and  we  know  each  other's 
ways." 

He  broke  off,  conscious  that  in  her  eyes  he  was 
making  rather  feeble  excuses  to  cover  his  timidity 
and  incompetence. 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  are  quite  right,"  she  replied. 
There  was  a  gentle  indulgence  in  her  voice,  and  a 
smile  upon  her  lips  which  cried  as  plainly  as  words, 
"I  could  tell  you  something  if  I  chose."  But  she  was 
content  to  keep  her  triumphant  secret  to  herself.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  ledge  of  the  window,  and  beat 
a  little  tattoo  with  her  finger-tips,  so  that  Challoner 
could  not  but  look  at  them.  When  he  looked  he  un- 
derstood why  she  thus  called  his  attention.  She  wore 
a  wedding-ring. 

Challoner  was  surprised.  For  she  was  just  a  tall 
slip  of  a  girl.  He  put  her  age  at  nineteen  or  less.  She 
was  clear-eyed  and  pretty,  with  the  tremendous  con- 
fidence of  one  who  looks  out  at  life  from  the  secure 
shelter  of  a  school-room.  Then,  with  too  conscious 
an  unconsciousness,  she  turned  away,  and  Challoner 
saw  no  more  of  her  that  day. 

But  the  hotel  was  still  full,  though  most  of  the 
climbers  had  gone,  and  in  the  garden  looking  over 
the  valley  of  Zermatt,  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  a 

178 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

commotion  broke  out  about  the  big  telescope.  Chal- 
loner  was  discussing  plans  for  the  morrow  with  his 
guides  by  the  parapet  at  the  time,  and  the  three  men 
turned  as  one  towards  the  centre  of  the  clamour.  A 
German  tourist  was  gesticulating  excitedly  amidst  a 
group  of  his  compatriots.  He  broke  through  the 
group  and  came  towards  Challoner,  'beaming  like  a 
man  with  good  news. 

"You  should  see — through  the  telescope — since 
you  climb.  It  is  very  interesting.  But  you  must  be 
quick,  or  the  clouds  will  close  in  again." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Challoner  asked. 

"There,  on  the  top  of  the  Weisshorn,  I  saw  two 
men." 

"Now?  At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening — on  a  day 
of  storm?"  Challoner  cried.  "It's  impossible." 

"But  I  have  seen  them,  I  tell  you." 

Challoner  turned  and  looked  down  and  across  the 
valley.  The  great  curtain  of  cloud  hung  down  in 
front  of  the  hills  like  wool.  The  lower  slopes  of  dark 
green  met  it,  and  on  them  the  black  pines  marched 
up  into  the  mist.  Of  rock  and  glacier  and  soaring 
snow  not  an  inch  was  visible.  But  the  tourist  clung 
to  his  story. 

"It  is  my  first  visit  to  the  mountains.  I  was  never 
free  before,  and  I  must  go  down  to-morrow  morning. 
I  thought  that  even  now  I  should  never  see  them — 
all  the  time  I  have  been  here  the  weather  has  been 

179 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

terrible.  But  at  the  last  moment  I  have  had  the  good 
fortune.  Oh,  I  am  very  pleased." 

The  enthusiasm  of  this  middle-aged  German  busi- 
ness man,  an  enthusiasm  childlike  as  it  was  sincere, 
did  not  surprise  Challoner.  He  looked  upon  that  as 
natural.  But  he  doubted  the  truth  of  the  man's  vision. 
He  wanted  so  much  to  see  that  he  saw. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  you  saw,"  Challoner  asked, 
and  this  was  the  story  which  the  tourist  told. 

He  was  looking  through  the  telescope  when  suddenly 
the  clouds  thinned,  and  through  a  film  of  vapour  he 
saw,  very  far  away  and  dimly,  a  soaring  line  of  black 
like  a  jagged  reef,  and  a  great  white  slope  more  solid 
than  the  clouds,  and  holding  light.  He  kept  his  eye 
to  the  lens,  hoping  with  all  his  soul  that  the  won- 
derful vision  might  be  vouchsafed  to  him,  and  as  he 
looked,  the  screen  of  vapour  vanished,  and  he  saw 
quite  clearly  the  exquisite  silver  pyramid^of  the  Weiss- 
horn  soaring  up  alone  in  the  depths  of  a  great  cavern 
of  grey  cloud.  For  a  little  while  he  continued  to  watch, 
hoping  for  a  ray  of  sunlight  to  complete  a  picture 
which  he  was  never  to  forget,  and  then,  to  his  amaze- 
ment and  delight,  two  men  climbed  suddenly  into  his 
vision  on  to  the  top  of  the  peak.  They  came  from  the 
south  or  the  south-west. 

"By  the  Schalligrat ! "  exclaimed  Challoner.  "It's 
not  possible!" 

"Yes,"  the  tourist  protested.  He  was  sure.  There 
180 


was  no  illusion  at  all.  The  two  men  did  not  halt  for 
a  second  on  the  top.  They  crossed  it,  and  began  to 
descend  the  long  ridge  towards  the  St.  Nicholas 
valley. 

"I  am  sure,"  he  continued.  "One  of  the  climbers, 
the  one  in  front,  was  moving  very  slowly  and  un- 
certainly like  a  man  in  an  extremity  of  weakness.  The 
last  was  strong.  I  saw  him  lift  the  rope  between  them, 
which  was  slack,  and  shake  the  snow  off  it " 

"You  saw  that?"  exclaimed  Challoner.  "What 
then?" 

"Nothing.  The  clouds  closed  again  over  the  peak, 
and  I  saw  no  more." 

Challoner  had  listened  to  the  story  with  a  growing 
anxiety.  He  took  the  chair  behind  the  telescope, 
and  sat  with  his  eye  to  the  lens  for  a  long  while.  But 
he  saw  only  writhing  mists  in  a  failing  light.  He  rose 
and  moved  away.  There  was  no  mountaineer  that 
day  in  the  hotel  except  himself.  Not  one  of  the  group 
about  the  telescope  quite  understood  the  gravity  of 
the  story  which  had  been  told  them — if  it  were  true. 
But  it  could  not  be  true,  Challoner  assured  himself. 

It  was  just  possible,  of  course,  that  on  a  fine  day 
some  party  which  had  adventured  upon  a  new  ascent 
might  find  itself  on  the  top  of  the  Weisshorn  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  But  on  a  day  like  this  no  man 
in  his  senses  would  be  on  any  ridge  or  face  of  that 
mountain  at  all,  even  in  the  morning.  Yet  the  tourist's 

181 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

story  was  circumstantial.  That  was  the  fact  which 
troubled  Challoner.  The  traverse  of  the  Weisshorn 
from  the  Schallijoch,  for  instance,  was  one  of  the 
known  difficult  climbs  of  the  Pennine  Alps.  There 
was  that  little  detail,  too,  of  the  last  man  shaking  the 
snow  from  the  slack  of  the  rope.  But  no  doubt  the 
tourist  had  read  the  year-books  of  the  Austrian  Al- 
pine Club.  Certainly  he  must  have  been  mistaken. 
He  wanted  to  see;  therefore  he  saw.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable that  the  story  should  be  true. 

Thus  Challoner  thought  all  through  that  evening 
and  the  next  day.  But  as  he  left  the  dining-room 
the  manageress  met  him  with  a  grave  face,  and  asked 
him  into  her  office.  She  closed  the  door  when  he  had 
entered  the  room,  and  said: 

"There  has  been  an  accident." 

Challoner's  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  story  of  the 
tourist. 

"On  the  Weisshorn?" 

"Yes.  It  is  terrible!"  And  the  woman  sat  down, 
while  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her 
cheeks. 

Two  young  Englishmen,  it  appeared,  Mark  Frob- 
isher  and  George  Liston,  had  come  up  from  the 
valley  a  week  ago.  They  would  not  hear  of  guides. 
They  had  climbed  from  Wasdale  Head  and  in  the 
Snowdon  range.  The  Alpine  Club  was  a  body  of  old 
fogies.  They  did  not  think  much  of  the  Alps. 

182 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"They  were  so  young — boys!  Mr.  Frobisher 
brought  a  wife  with  him."  . 

"A  wife?"  exclaimed  Challoner. 

"Yes.  She  was  still  younger  than  he  was,  and  she 
spoke  as  he  did — knowing  nothing,  but  full  of  pride 
in  her  husband,  and  quite  confident  in  his  judgment. 
They  were  children — that  is  the  truth — and  very 
likely  we  might  have  persuaded  them  that  they  were 
wrong — if  only  Herr  Ranks  had  not  come,  too,  from 
Vienna  about  the  same  time." 

Challoner  began  dimly  to  understand  the  tragedy 
which  had  happened.  Ranks  was  well  known  amongst 
mountaineers.  Forty  years  old,  the  right  age  for  en- 
durance, he  was  known  for  a  passion  for  long  expedi- 
tions undertaken  with  very  small  equipment;  and 
for  a  rather  dangerous  indifference  as  to  the  com- 
panions he  climbed  with.  He  had  at  once  proposed 
the  Schalligrat  ascent  to  the  two  Englishmen.  They 
had  gone  down  to  Randa,  slept  the  night  there,  and 
in  bad  weather  had  walked  up  to  the  Weisshorn  hut, 
with  provisions  for  three  days.  Nothing  more  had 
been  heard  of  the  party  until  this  very  afternoon, 
when  Ranks  and  George  Listen,  both  exhausted  and 
the  latter  terribly  frost-bitten,  staggered  into  the 
Randa  hotel. 

"That's  terrible,"  said  Challoner.  But  still  more 
terrible  was  the  story  which  the  Austrian  had  to  tell. 
He  had  written  it  out  at  once  very  briefly,  and  sent 

183 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

it  up  to  the  Riffelalp.     The  manageress  handed  the 
letter  to  Challoner. 

"We  stayed  in  the  hut  two  days/'  it  ran,  "hoping 
that  the  weather  would  lift.  The  next  morning  there 
were  promising  signs,  and  taking  our  blankets  we 
crossed  the  Schalliberg  glacier,  and  camped  on  the 
usual  spur  of  the  Schallihorn.  We  had  very  little 
food  left,  and  I  know  now  that  we  ought  to  have  re- 
turned to  Randa.  But  I  did  not  think  of  the  youth 
of  my  companions.  It  was  very  cold  during  the  night, 
but  no  snow  fell,  and  in  the  morning  there  was  a  gleam 
of  sunshine.  Accordingly  we  started,  and  reached 
the  Schallijoch  in  four  hours  and  a  half.  Under  the 
top  of  the  col  we  breakfasted,  and  then  attacked  the 
ridge.  The  going  was  very  difficult;  there  was  often 
a  glaze  of  black  ice  upon  the  rocks,  and  as  not  one  of 
us  knew  the  ridge  at  all,  we  wasted  much  time  in  try- 
ing to  traverse  some  of  the  bigger  gendarmes  on  the 
western  side,  whereas  they  were  only  possible  on  the 
east.  Moreover,  the  sunlight  did  not  keep  its  promise: 
it  went  out  altogether  at  half-past  ten;  the  ridge  be- 
came bitterly  and  dangerously  cold,  and  soon  after 
midday  the  wind  rose.  We  dared  not  stop  anywhere, 
and  our  food  was  now  altogether  exhausted.  At  two 
o'clock  we  found  a  shelter  under  a  huge  tower  of  red 
rock,  and  there  we  rested.  Frobisher  complained  of 
exhaustion,  and  was  clearly  very  weak.  Liston  was 
stronger,  but  not  in  a  condition  for  a  climb  which  I 

184 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

think  must  always  be  difficult  and  was  now  hazardous 
in  the  extreme.  The  cold  had  made  him  very  sleepy. 
We  called  a  council  of  war.  But  it  was  quite  evident 
to  me  that  we  could  not  get  down  in  the  state  in  which 
we  were,  and  that  a  night  upon  the  ridge  without 
food  or  drink  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  was  cer- 
tain that  we  were  not  very  far  from  the  top,  and  I 
persuaded  my  friends  to  go  forward.  I  climbed  up 
and  over  the  red  tower  by  a  small  winding  crack  in 
its  face,  and  with  great  difficulty  managed,  by  the 
help  of  the  rope,  to  draw  my  friends  up  after  me.  But 
this  one  tower  took  more  than  an  hour  to  cross,  and 
on  a  little  snow-col  like  a  knife-edge  on  the  farther 
side  of  it,  Frobisher  collapsed  altogether.  What  with 
the  cold  and  his  exhaustion  his  heart  gave  out.  I 
swear  that  we  stayed  with  him  until  he  died — yes, 
I  swear  it — although  the  wind  was  very  dangerous 
to  the  rest  of  us,  and  he  was  evidently  dying.  We 
stayed  with  him — yes.  When  all  was  over,  I  tied  him 
by  the  waist  with  a  piece  of  spare  rope  we  carried  to 
a  splinter  of  rock  which  cropped  out  of  the  col,  and 
went  on  with  Listen.  I  did  not  think  that  we  should 
either  of  us  now  escape,  but  the  rock-towers  upon  the 
arete  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  at  six  o'clock  we 
stood  on  the  mountain-top.  Then  we  changed  the 
order,  Liston  going  now  first  down  the  easy  eastern 
ridge.  The  snow  was  granulated  and  did  not  bind, 
and  we  made  very  slow  progress.  We  stopped  for  the 

185 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

night  at  a  height,  I  should  think,  of  thirteen  thousand 
feet,  with  very  little  protection  from  the  wind.  The 
cold  was  terrible,  and  I  did  not  think  that  Listen 
would  live  through  the  night.  But  he  did,  and  to- 
day there  was  sunlight,  and  warmth  in  the  sunlight, 
so  that  moving  very  carefully  we  got  down  to  the 
hut  by  midday.  There,  by  a  happy  chance,  we  found 
some  crusts  and  odds  and  ends  of  food  which  we  had 
left  behind;  and  after  a  rest  were  able  to  come  on  to 
Randa,  getting  some  milk  at  the  half-way  chalet  on 
the  way  down.  Listen  is  frost-bitten  in  the  feet  and 
hands,  but  I  think  will  be  able  to  be  moved  down  to 
the  clinic  at  Lucerne  in  a  couple  of  days.  It  is  all  my 
fault.  Yes.  I  say  that  frankly.  I  alone  am  to  blame. 
I  take  it  all  upon  my  shoulders.  You  can  say  so  freely 
at  the  Riffelalp.  '  Ranks  takes  all  the  blame.'  I  shall 
indeed  write  to-morrow  to  the  Zurich  papers  to  say 
that  the  fault  is  mine." 

Challoner  read  the  message  through  again.  The 
assumption  of  magnanimity  in  the  last  few  lines  was 
singularly  displeasing,  and  the  eager  assertion  that 
the  party  had  not  left  Frobisher  until  he  was  actually 
dead  seemed  to  protest  overmuch. 

"That's  a  bad  letter,"  said  Challoner.  "He  left 
Frobisher  still  alive  upon  the  ridge,"  and  the  desola- 
tion of  that  death  in  the  cold  and  the  darkness  and 
the  utter  loneliness  of  those  storm-riven  pinnacles 
soaring  above  the  world  seemed  to  him  appalling. 

186 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

But  the  manageress  had  no  thoughts  to  spare  for  the 
letter. 

"Who  will  tell  her?"  she  asked,  rocking  her  body 
to  and  fro,  and  fixing  her  troubled  eyes  on  Challoner. 
"It  is  you.  You  are  her  countryman." 

Challoner  was  startled. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  told  you.  Mr.  Frobisher  brought  a  wife  with 
him.  Yes.  They  had  only  been  married  a  couple  of 
months.  She  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than  he  is — a 
child.  Oh,  and  she  was  so  proud  of  him.  For  my 
part  I  did  not  like  him  very  much.  I  would  not  have 
trusted  him  with  the  happiness  of  anyone  I  cared 
for.  But  she  had  given  him  all  her  heart.  And  now 
she  must  be  told!" 

"She  is  in  the  hotel  now?"  Challoner  asked. 

"Yes.    You  were  talking  to  her  yesterday." 

Challoner  did  not  need  the  answer. 

"Very  well.  I  will  tell  her."  And  he  turned  away, 
his  heart  sick  at  the  task  which  lay  before  him.  But 
before  he  had  reached  the  door  the  woman  called 
him  back. 

"  Could  we  not  give  her  just  one  more  night  of  con- 
fidence and  contentment?  Nothing  can  be  done 
until  to-morrow.  No  one  in  the  hotel  knows  but  you 
and  I.  She  will  have  sorrow  enough.  She  need  not 
begin  to  suffer  before  she  must.  Just  one  more  night 
of  quiet  sleep." 

187 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

So  she  pleaded,  and  Challoner  clutched  at  the  plea. 
He  was  twenty-six,  and  up  to  the  moment  life  had 
hidden  from  him  her  stern  ordeals.  How  should  he 
break  the  news  ?  He  needed  time  carefully  to  prepare 
the  way.  He  shrank  from  the  vision  of  the  pain  which 
he  must  inflict. 

"Yes,  it  can  all  wait  until  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
and  he  went  out  of  the  office  into  the  hall.  There 
was  a  sound  of  music  in  the  big  drawing-room — a 
waltz,  and  the  visitors  were  dancing  to  it.  The  noise 
jarred  upon  his  ears,  and  he  crossed  towards  the  garden 
door  in  order  to  escape  from  it.  But  to  reach  the 
garden  he  had  to  pass  the  ballroom,  and  as  he  passed 
it  he  looked  in,  and  the  irony  of  the  world  shocked 
him  so  that  he  stood  staring  upon  the  company  with 
a  white  face  and  open-mouthed.  Frobisher's  widow 
was  dancing.  She  was  dancing  with  all  the  supple 
grace  of  her  nineteen  years,  her  face  flushed  and  smiling, 
whilst  up  there,  fourteen  thousand  feet  high  on  the 
storm-swept  ridge  of  the  Weisshorn,  throughout  that 
bitter  night  her  dead  husband  bestrode  the  snow,  and 
nodded  and  swayed  to  the  gale.  As  she  whirled  past 
the  door  she  saw  him.  She  smiled  with  the  pleasant 
friendliness  of  a  girl  who  is  perfectly  happy,  and  with 
just  a  hint  of  condescension  for  the  weaker  vessel 
who  found  it  necessary  to  climb  with  guides.  Chal- 
loner hurried  out  into  the  garden. 

He  went  up  to  her  room  the  next  morning  and  broke 
188 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

the  news  to  her  as  gently  as  he  could.  He  was  pre- 
pared for  tears,  for  an  overwhelming  grief.  But  she 
showed  him  neither.  She  caught  at  an  arm  of  a  chair, 
and  leaning  upon  it,  seated  herself  when  he  began  to 
speak.  But  after  that  she  listened,  frowning  at  him 
in  a  perplexity  like  a  child  over  some  difficult  problem 
of  her  books.  And  when  he  had  finished  she  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  try  to  frighten  me," 
she  said.  "Of  course,  it  is  not  true." 

She  would  not  believe — no,  not  even  with  Ranks's 
letter  in  her  hand,  at  which  she  stared  and  stared  as 
though  it  needed  decoding. 

"Perhaps  I  could  read  it  if  I  were  alone,"  she  said 
at  last,  and  Challoner  left  her  to  herself. 

In  an  hour  she  sent  for  him  again.  Now  indeed 
she  knew,  but  she  had  no  tears  wherewith  to  ease  her 
knowledge.  Challoner  saw  upon  her  face  such  an  ex- 
pression of  misery  and  torture  as  he  hoped  never  to 
see  again.  She  spoke  with  a  submission  which  was 
very  strange.  It  was  only  the  fact  of  her  youth,  not 
her  consciousness  of  it,  which  seemed  to  protest  against 
her  anguish  as  against  an  injustice. 

"I  was  abrupt  to  you,"  she  said.     "I  am  sorry. 

You    were    kind    to    me.      I    did    not    understand. 

"But    I    understand    now,    and    there    is    something 

which  I  should  like  to  ask  you.    You  see,  I  do  not 

know." 

189 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"Yes?" 

"Would  it  be  possible  that  he  should  be  brought 
back  to  me  ?  " 

She  had  turned  to  the  window,  and  she  spoke  low, 
and  with  a  world  of  yearning  in  her  voice. 

"We  will  try." 

"I  should  be  so  very  grateful." 

She  had  so  desolate  a  look  that  Challoner  made  a 
promise  of  it,  even  though  he  knew  well  the  rashness 
of  the  promise. 

"You  will  go  yourself?"  she  asked,  turning  her 
face  to  him. 

"Of  course." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  no  friends  here,  you  see,  but 
you." 

Eight  guides  were  collected  that  afternoon  in  the 
valley.  Challoner  brought  down  his  two,  and  the 
whole  party,  under  the  guide-chief,  moved  up  to  the 
Weisshorn  hut.  Starting  the  next  morning  with  a 
clear  sky  of  starlight  above  their  heads,  they  crossed 
the  mountain  by  the  eastern  arete,  and  descending 
the  Schalligrat,  found  young  Frobisher  tied  by  the 
waist  and  shoulders  to  a  splinter  of  rock  as  Ranks 
had  described.  He  was  astride  a  narrow  edge  of  snow, 
a  leg  dangling  down  each  precipice.  His  eyes  stared 
at  them,  his  mouth  hung  open,  and  when  any  stray 
gust  of  wind  struck  the  ridge,  he  nodded  at  them  with 
a  dreadful  pleasantry.  He  had  the  air,  to  Challoner's 

190 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

eyes,  of  a  live  paralytic  rather  than  of  a  man  frozen 
and  dead.  His  face  was  the  colour  of  cheese. 

With  infinite  trouble  they  lifted  him  back  on  to 
the  mountain  summit,  and  roped  him  round  in  a  piece 
of  stout  sacking.  Then  they  dragged  him  down  the 
snow  of  the  upper  part  of  the  ridge,  carried  him  over 
the  lower  section  of  rock,  and,  turning  off  the  ridge  to 
the  right,  brought  him  down  to  the  glacier. 

It  was  then  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  half 
an  hour  later  the  grimmest  episode  of  all  that  terrible 
day  occurred.  The  lashing  of  the  rope  got  loose  as 
they  dragged  the  body  down  the  glacier,  and  suddenly 
it  worked  out  of  the  sacking  and  slid  swiftly  past 
them  down  a  steep  slope  of  ice.  A  cry  of  horror  broke 
from  the  rescue  party.  For  a  moment  or  two  they 
watched  it  helplessly  as  it  gathered  speed  and  leapt 
into  the  air  from  one  little  hummock  to  another,  the 
arms  tossing  and  whirling  like  the  arms  of  a  man  taken 
off  his  guard.  Then  it  disappeared  with  a  crash  into 
a  crevasse,  and  the  glacier  was  empty. 

The  party  stood  for  a  little  while  aghast,  and  the 
illusion  which  had  seized  upon  Challoner  when  he 
had  first  come  in  sight  of  the  red  rock-tower  on  the 
other  ridge  attacked  him  again.  He  could  not  get  it 
out  of  his  thoughts  that  this  was  a  living  man  who 
had  disappeared  from  their  gaze,  so  natural  had  all 
his  movements  been. 

The  party  descended  to  the  lip  of  the  crevasse,  and 
191 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

a  guide  was  lowered  into  it.  But  he  could  not  reach 
the  bottom,  and  they  drew  him  up  again. 

"That  is  his  grave,"  said  Joseph  Blauer,  solemnly; 
and  they  turned  away  again  and  descended  to  Randa. 

"How  shall  I  meet  that  girl?"  Challoner  asked 
himself,  in  a  passion  of  remorse.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  betrayed  a  trust,  and  the  sum  of  treachery 
deepened  in  him  when  he  did  tell  it  that  night  at  the 
Riffelalp.  For  tears  had  their  way  with  her  at  last. 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  arms  upon  the  table,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  burst. 

"I  had  so  hoped  that  you  would  bring  him  back 
to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  him  lying 
for  ever  in  that  loneliness  of  ice." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  Challoner  stammered,  and  she 
was  silent.  "You  have  friends  coming  out  to  you?" 
he  asked. 

He  went  down  into  the  hall,  and  a  man  whose  face 
he  remembered  came  eagerly  towards  him.  Challoner 
was  able  to  identify  him  the  next  moment.  For  the 
man  cried  out: 

"It  is  done.  Yes,  it  is  in  all  the  Zurich  papers.  I 
have  said  that  I  alone  am  to  blame.  I  have  taken 
the  whole  responsibility  upon  my  shoulders."  Herr 
Ranks  brimmed  with  magnanimity. 


192 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 


II 


Towards  Christmas  of  that  year  Challoner,  at  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple,  received  a  letter  in  an  un- 
familiar hand.  It  came  from  Mrs.  Frobisher.  It  was 
a  letter  of  apology.  She  had  run  away  into  hiding 
with  her  sorrow,  and  only  during  the  last  weeks  had 
she  grown  conscious  of  the  trouble  which  Challoner 
had  taken  for  her.  She  had  quite  forgotten  to  thank 
him,  but  she  did  so  now,  though  the  thanks  were  over- 
late.  Challoner  was  very  glad  to  receive  the  letter. 
From  the  day  when  he  had  seen  her  off  from  the  new 
station  in  the  valley,  he  had  lost  sight  of  her  alto- 
gether, but  the  recollection  of  her  pale  and  wistful 
face  at  the  carriage  window  had  haunted  him.  With 
just  that  look,  he  had  thought,  might  some  exile  leave 
behind  every  treasured  thing  and  depart  upon  a  long 
journey  into  perpetual  banishment.  This  letter,  how- 
ever, had  a  hint,  a  perfume  of  spring-time.  Stella 
Frobisher — by  that  name  she  signed — was  beginning 
to  recreate  her  life. 

Challoner  took  a  note  of  her  address,  and  travelled 
into  Dorsetshire  on  the  Saturday.  Stella  Frobisher 
lived  in  a  long  and  ancient  house,  half  farm,  half  man- 
sion, set  apart  in  a  rich  country  close  to  Arishmell 
Cove.  Through  a  doorway  one  looked  into  a  garden 
behind  the  house  which  even  at  that  season  was  bright 

193 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

with  flowers.  She  lived  with  the  roar  of  the  waves 
upon  the  shingle  in  her  ears  and  the  gorse-strewn 
downs  before  her  eyes.  Challoner  had  found  a  warm 
and  cheerful  welcome  at  that  house,  and  came  back 
again  to  it.  Stella  Frobisher  neither  played  the  hermit 
nor  made  a  luxury  out  of  her  calamitous  loss.  She 
rebuilt  her  little  world  as  well  as  she  could,  bearing 
herself  with  pride  and  courage.  Challoner  could  not 
but  admire  her;  he  began  to  be  troubled  by  what 
seemed  to  him  the  sterility  of  a  valuable  life.  He  could 
not  but  see  that  she  looked  forward  to  his  visits.  Other 
emotions  were  roused  in  him,  and  on  one  morning  of 
summer,  with  the  sea  blue  at  her  feet  and  the  gorse 
a  golden  flame  about  her,  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

Stella  Frobisher's  face  grew  very  grave. 

"I  am  afraid  that's  impossible,"  she  said,  slowly, 
a  little  to  his  surprise  and  a  great  deal  to  his  chagrin. 
Perhaps  she  noticed  the  chagrin,  for  she  continued 
quickly,  "I  shall  tell  you  why.  Do  you  know  Pro- 
fessor Kersley?" 

Challoner  looked  at  her  with  astonishment. 

"I  have  met  him  in  the  Alps." 

Stella  Frobisher  nodded.  "He  is  supposed  to  know 
more  than  anyone  else  about  the  movements  of 
glaciers." 

Dimly  Challoner  began  to  understand,  and  he  was 
startled. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

194 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"  I  went  to  call  on  him  at  Cambridge.  He  was  very 
civil.  I  told  him  about  the  accident  on  the  Weiss- 
horn.  He  promised  to  make  a  calculation.  He  took 
a  great  deal  of  trouble.  He  sent  for  me  again  and 
told  me  the  month  and  the  year.  He  even  named  a 
week,  and  a  day  in  the  week."  So  far  she  had  spoken 
quite  slowly  and  calmly.  Now,  however,  her  voice 
broke,  and  she  looked  away.  "On  July  21st,  twenty- 
four  years  from  now,  Mark  will  come  out  of  the  ice 
at  the  snout  of  the  Hohlicht  glacier." 

Challoner  did  not  dispute  the  prophecy.  Com- 
putations of  the  kind  had  been  made  before  with 
extraordinary  truth. 

"But  you  won't  wait  till  then?"  he  cried,  in  pro- 
test. 

For  a  little  while  she  found  it  difficult  to  speak. 
Her  thoughts  were  very  far  away  from  that  shining 
sea  and  homely  turf. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  whisper;  "I  am  dedi- 
cated to  that  as  a  nun  to  her  service."  And  against 
that  dead  man  wrapped  in  ice,  his  unconquerable 
rival,  Challoner  strove  in  vain. 

"So  you  must  look  elsewhere,"  Stella  said.  "You 
must  not  waste  your  life.  I  am  not  wasting  mine. 
I  live  for  an  hour  which  will  come." 

"I  am  in  too  deep,  I  am  afraid,  to  look  elsewhere," 
said  Challoner,  gloomily.  Stella  Frobisher  looked  at 
him  with  a  smile  of  humour  playing  about  her  mouth. 

195 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"I  should  like  to  feel  sorry  about  that,"  she  said. 
"But  I  am  not  noble,  and  I  can't." 

They  went  together  down  to  the  house,  and  she 
said:  "However,  you  are  young.  Many  things  will 
happen  to  you.  You  will  change." 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  not.  He  wanted  this 
particular  woman,  and  not  another.  He  cursed  him- 
self considerably  for  his  folly  in  not  making  sure,  when 
the  rescue  party  got  down  from  the  rocks  on  to  the 
glacier,  that  the  rope  about  the  sacking  was  not  work- 
ing loose.  But  such  reproaches  did  not  help  forward 
his  suit.  And  the  years  slipped  away,  each  one  a 
trifle  more  swiftly  than  that  which  had  gone  before. 
But  in  the  press  of  a  rising  practice  he  hardly  noticed 
their  passage.  From  time  to  time  Stella  Frobisher 
came  to  town,  sat  in  the  Law  Courts  while  he  argued, 
was  taken  to  shop  in  Bond  Street,  and  entertained  at 
theatres.  Upon  one  such  visit  they  motored — for 
motors  had  come  now — on  an  evening  in  June  down 
the  Portsmouth  road,  and  dined  at  the  inn  at  Ockham. 
On  their  way  she  said,  simply: 

"It  is  the  year." 

"I  know,"  replied  Challoner.  "Shall  I  come  with 
you?" 

She  caught  his  hand  tightly  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  if  you  could!    I  am  a  little  afraid — now." 

He  took  her  out  to  Randa.  There  were  many 
changes  in  the  valley.  New  hotels  had  sprung  up;  a 

196 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

railway  climbed  nowadays  to  the  Riffelalp;  the  tourists 
came  in  hundreds  instead  of  tens;  the  mountains  were 
overrun.  But  Challoner's  eyes  were  closed  to  the 
changes.  He  went  up  through  the  cleft  of  the  hills 
to  where  the  glaciers  come  down  from  the  Weisshorn 
and  the  Schallijoch  and  the  Morning  Pass;  and  as 
July  drew  on,  he  pitched  a  camp  there,  and  stood  on 
guard  like  a  sentinel. 

There  came  a  morning  when,  coming  out  of  his  tent 
on  to  a  knoll  of  grass,  he  saw  below  him  on  the  white 
surface  of  the  glacier,  and  not  very  far  away,  some- 
thing small  and  black. 

"It's  a  pebble,  no  doubt,"  he  thought,  but  he  took 
his  axe  and  climbed  down  on  to  the  ice.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  object  the  surer  he  became.  It  was  a 
round  pebble,  polished  black  and  smooth  by  the  fric- 
tion of  the  ice.  He  almost  turned  back.  But  it  was 
near,  and  he  went  on.  Then  a  ray  of  sunlight  shot 
down  the  valley,  and  the  thing  flickered.  Challoner 
stooped  over  it  curiously  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  a 
gold  watch,  lying  with  its  dial  against  the  ice,  and  its 
case  blackened  save  for  a  spot  or  two  where  it  shone. 
The  glass  was  missing  and  the  hands  broken,  and  it 
had  stopped.  Challoner  opened  it  at  the  back;  the 
tiny  wheels,  the  coil  of  the  mainspring,  were  as  bright 
as  on  the  day  when  the  watch  was  sold.  It  might  have 
been  dropped  there  out  of  a  pocket  a  day  or  two 
ago.  But  ice  has  its  whims  and  vagaries.  Here  it  will 

197 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

grind  to  powder,  there  it  will  encase  and  preserve. 
The  watch  might  have  come  out  of  the  ice  during 
this  past  night.  Was  the  glacier  indeed  giving  up  its 
secrets  ? 

Challoner  held  the  watch  in  his  hand,  gazing  out 
with  blind  eyes  over  the  empty,  silent  world  of  rock 
and  ice.  The  feel  of  it  was  magical.  It  was  as  though 
he  gazed  into  the  sorcerer's  pot  of  ink,  so  vivid  and 
near  were  those  vanished  days  at  the  Riffelalp  and 
the  dreadful  quest  on  the  silver  peak  now  soaring  high 
above  his  head.  He  continued  his  search  that  morn- 
ing. Late  in  the  afternoon  he  burst  into  the  hotel 
at  Randa.  Stella  Frobisher  drew  him  away  into  the 
garden,  where  they  were  alone.  He  gave  the  watch 
into  her  hands,  and  she  clasped  it  swiftly  against  her 
heart  with  an  unearthly  look  of  exaltation  upon  her 
face. 

"It  is  his?"  asked  Challoner. 

"Yes.    I  will  go  up." 

Challoner  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  had  been 
prepared  to  refuse  her  plea,  but  he  had  seen,  and 
having  seen,  he  consented. 

"To-morrow — early.  Trust  me.  That  will  be  time 
enough." 

He  collected  porters  that  evening,  and  at  daybreak 
they  walked  out  from  the  chalets  and  up  the  bank  of 
the  glacier,  left  the  porters  by  his  tent,  and  he  led  her 
alone  across  the  glacier  and  stopped. 

198 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

"Here,"  he  said.  In  front  of  her  the  glacier  spread 
out  like  a  vast  fan  within  the  cup  of  the  hills,  but  it 
was  empty. 

"Where?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper,  and  Challoner 
looked  at  her  out  of  troubled  eyes,  and  did  not  an- 
swer. Then  she  looked  down,  and  at  her  feet  just 
below  the  surface  of  the  glacier,  as  under  a  thick  sheet 
of  crystal,  she  saw  after  all  these  years  Mark  Frob- 
isher.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  with  a  loud  cry, 
and  to  Challoner  the  truth  about  all  these  years  came 
home  with  a  dreadful  shock. 

Under  the  ice  Mark  Frobisher  lay  quietly,  like  a 
youth  asleep.  The  twenty-four  years  had  cut  not  a 
line  about  his  mouth,  not  a  wrinkle  about  his  eyes. 
The  glacier  had  used  him  even  more  tenderly  than  it 
had  used  his  watch.  The  years  had  taken  no  toll  of 
him.  He  was  as  young,  his  features  were  as  clear  and 
handsome,  as  on  the  day  when  he  had  set  out  upon 
his  tragic  expedition.  And  over  him  bent  his  wife, 
a  woman  worn,  lined,  old.  For  the  first  time  Chal- 
loner realised  that  all  her  youth  had  long  since  gone, 
and  he  understood  for  the  first  time  that,  as  it  was 
with  her,  so,  too,  it  was  with  him.  Often  enough  he 
had  said,  "Oh,  yes,  I  am  getting  on.  The  years  are 
passing."  But  he  had  used  the  words  with  a  laugh, 
deferring  to  convention  by  the  utterance  of  the  proper 
meaningless  thing.  Now  he  understood  the  meaning- 
less thing  meant  the  best  part  of  everything.  Stella 

199 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

Frobisher  and  he  were  just  a  couple  of  old  people,  and 
their  good  years  had  all  been  wasted. 

He  gently  raised  Stella  Frobisher  to  her  feet. 

"Will  you  stand  aside  for  a  little?"  he  said.  "I 
will  call  you." 

She  moved  obediently  a  few  yards  away,  and  Chal- 
loner  summoned  the  porters.  Very  carefully  they 
cut  the  ice  away.  Then  he  called  aloud: 

"  Stella ! "    And  she  returned. 

There  was  no  sheet  of  ice  between  them  now;  the 
young  man  and  the  worn  woman  who  had  spent  a 
couple  of  months  of  their  youth  together  met  thus 
at  last.  But  the  meeting  was  as  brief  as  a  spark. 

The  airs  of  heaven  beat  upon  Mark  Frobisher,  and 
suddenly  his  face  seemed  to  quiver  and  his  features 
to  be  obscured.  Stella  uttered  a  scream  of  terror, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  For  from  head 
to  foot  the  youth  crumbled  into  dust  and  was  not. 
And  some  small  trifle  tinkled  on  the  ice  with  a  me- 
tallic sound. 

Challoner  saw  it  shining  at  the  bottom  of  the  shallow 
trench  of  ice.  It  was  a  gold  locket  on  a  thin  chain. 
It  was  still  quite  bright,  for  it  had  been  worn  round 
the  neck  and  under  the  clothes.  Challoner  stooped 
and  picked  it  up  and  opened  it.  A  face  stared  boldly 
out  at  him,  the  face  of  a  girl,  pretty  and  quite  vulgar, 
and  quite  strange  to  him.  A  forgotten  saying  took 
shape  slowly  in  his  memory.  What  was  it  that  the 

200 


THE  CRYSTAL  TRENCH 

woman  who  had  managed  the  hotel  at  the  Riffelalp 
had  said  to  him  of  Frobisher? 

"I  did  not  like  him.    I  should  not  trust  him." 

He  looked  up  to  see  Stella  Frobisher  watching  him 
with  a  white  face  and  brooding  eyes. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

Challoner  shut  the  locket. 

"A  portrait  of  you,"  he  said,  hastily. 

"He  had  no  locket  with  a  portrait  of  me,"  said 
Stella  Frobisher. 

Over  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  the  sun  leapt  into  the 
sky  and  flooded  the  world  with  gold. 


201 


THE   HOUSE   OF  TERROR 


THE   HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

There  are  eager  spirits  who  enter  upon  each  morn- 
ing like  adventurers  upon  an  unknown  sea.  Mr. 
Rupert  Glynn,  however,  was  not  of  that  company. 
He  had  been  christened  "Rupert"  in  an  ironical  mo- 
ment, for  he  preferred  the  day  to  be  humdrum.  Pos- 
sessed of  an  easy  independence,  which  he  had  never 
done  a  stroke  of  work  to  enlarge,  he  remained  a 
bachelor,  not  from  lack  of  opportunity  to  become  a 
husband,  but  in  order  that  his  comfort  might  not  be 
disarranged. 

"A  hunting-box  in  the  Midlands,"  he  used  to  say, 
"a  set  of  chambers  in  the  Albany,  the  season  in  town, 
a  cure  in  the  autumn  at  some  French  spa  where  a 
modest  game  of  baccarat  can  be  enjoyed,  and  a  five- 
pound  note  in  my  pocket  at  the  service  of  a  friend — 
these  conditions  satisfy  my  simple  wants,  and  I  can 
rub  along." 

Contentment  had  rounded  his  figure,  and  he  was  a 
little  thicker  in  the  jaw  and  redder  in  the  face  than 
he  used  to  be.  But  his  eye  was  clear,  and  he  had  many 
friends,  a  fact  for  which  it  was  easy  to  account.  For 
there  was  a  pleasant  earthliness  about  him  which 
made  him  restful  company.  It  seemed  impossible 

205 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

that  strange  startling  things  could  happen  in  his  pres- 
ence; he  had  so  stolid  and  comfortable  a  look,  his  life 
was  so  customary  and  sane.  "When  I  am  frightened 
by  queer  shuffling  sounds  in  the  dead  of  night,"  said 
a  nervous  friend  of  his,  "  I  think  of  Rupert  Glynn  and 
I  am  comforted."  Yet  just  because  of  this  atmos- 
phere of  security  which  he  diffused  about  him,  Mr, 
Glynn  was  dragged  into  mysteries,  and  made  ac- 
quainted with  terrors. 

In  the  first  days  of  February  Mr.  Glynn  found 
upon  his  breakfast-table  at  Melton  a  letter  which 
he  read  through  with  an  increasing  gravity.  Mr. 
Glynn  being  a  man  of  method,  kept  a  file  of  the  Morn- 
ing Post.  He  rang  the  bell  for  his  servant,  and  fetched 
to  the  table  his  pocket  diary.  He  turned  back  the 
pages  until  he  read  in  the  space  reserved  for  November 
15th,  "My  first  run  of  the  year." 

Then  he  spoke  to  his  servant,  who  was  now  wait- 
ing hi  the  room: 

"Thompson,  bring  me  the  Morning  Post  of  Novem- 
ber 16th." 

Mr.  Glynn  remembered  that  he  had  read  a  partic- 
ular announcement  in  the  paper  on  the  morning  after 
his  first  run,  when  he  was  very  stiff.  Thompson 
brought  him  the  copy  for  which  he  had  asked,  and, 
turning  over  the  pages,  he  soon  lighted  upon  the  para- 
graph. 

"Mr.  James  Thresk  has  recovered  from  his  recent 
206 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

breakdown,    and   left   London   yesterday   with  Mrs. 
Thresk  for  North  Uist." 

Glynn  laid  down  his  newspaper  and  contemplated 
the  immediate  future  with  gloom.  It  was  a  very  long 
way  to  the  Outer  Hebrides,  and,  moreover,  he  had 
eight  horses  in  his  stable.  Yet  he  could  hardly  refuse 
to  take  the  journey  in  the  face  of  that  paragraph.  It 
was  not,  indeed,  in  his  nature  to  refuse.  For  the  letter 
written  by  Linda  Thresk  claimed  his  presence  ur- 
gently. He  took  it  up  again.  There  was  no  reason 
expressed  as  to  why  he  was  needed.  And  there  were 
instructions,  besides,  which  puzzled  him,  very  ex- 
plicit instructions.  He  was  to  bring  his  guns,  he  was 
to  send  a  telegram  from  Loch  Boisdale,  the  last  har- 
bour into  which  the  steamer  from  Oban  put  before  it 
reached  North  Uist,  and  from  no  other  place.  He 
was,  in  a  word,  to  pretend  that  he  had  been  shooting 
in  a  neighbouring  island  to  North  Uist,  and  that,  since 
he  was  so  near,  he  ventured  to  trespass  for  a  night  or 
two  on  Mrs.  Thresk's  hospitality.  All  these  precau- 
tions seemed  to  Glynn  ominous,  but  still  more  ominous 
was  the  style  of  the  letter.  A  word  here,  a  sentence 
there — nay,  the  very  agitation  of  the  handwriting, 
filled  Glynn  with  uneasiness.  The  appeal  was  almost 
pitiful.  He  seemed  to  see  Linda  Thresk  bending  over 
the  pages  of  the  letter  which  he  now  held  in  his  hand, 
writing  hurriedly,  with  a  twitching,  terrified  face, 
and  every  now  and  then  looking  up,  and  to  this  side 

207 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

and  to  that,  with  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  animal.  He 
remembered  Linda's  appearance  very  well  as  he  held 
her  letter  in  his  hand,  although  three  years  had  passed 
since  he  had  seen  her — a  fragile,  slender  woman  with 
a  pale,  delicate  face,  big  dark  eyes,  and  masses  of  dark 
hair — a  woman  with  the  look  of  a  girl  and  an  almost 
hot-house  air  of  refinement. 

Mr.  Glynn  laid  the  letter  down  again,  and  again 
rang  for  his  servant. 

"Pack  for  a  fortnight,"  he  said.  "And  get  my 
guns  out.  I  am  going  away." 

Thompson  was  as  surprised  as  his  self-respect  al- 
lowed him  to  be. 

"Your  guns,  sir?"  he  asked.  "I  think  they  are  in 
town,  but  we  have  not  used  them  for  so  long." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Glynn  impatiently.  "But  we 
are  going  to  use  them  now." 

Thompson  knew  very  well  that  Mr.  Glyhn  could 
not  hit  a  haystack  twenty  yards  away,  and  had  al- 
together abandoned  a  sport  in  which  he  was  so  lamen- 
tably deficient.  But  a  still  greater  shock  was  to  be 
inflicted  upon  him. 

"Thompson,"  said  Mr.  Glynn,  "I  shall  not  take 
you  with  me.  I  shall  go  alone." 

And  go  alone  he  did.  Here  was  the  five-pound  note, 
in  a  word,  at  the  service  of  a  friend.  But  he  was  not 
without  perplexities,  to  keep  his  thoughts  busy  upon 
his  journey. 

208 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Why  had  Linda  Thresk  sent  for  him  out  of  all  her 
friends  ? 

For  since  her  marriage  three  years  before,  he  had 
clean  lost  sight  of  her,  and  even  before  her  marriage 
he  had,  after  all,  been  only  one  of  many.  He  found 
no  answer  to  that  question.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
faithfully  fulfilled  Mrs.  Thresk's  instructions.  He 
took  his  guns  with  him,  and  when  the  steamer  stopped 
beside  the  little  quay  at  Loch  Boisdale  he  went  ashore 
and  sent  off  his  telegram.  Two  hours  later  he  dis- 
embarked at  Lochmaddy  in  North  Uist,  and,  hiring 
a  trap  at  the  inn,  set  off  on  his  long  drive  across  that 
flat  and  melancholy  island.  The  sun  set,  the  swift 
darkness  followed,  and  the  moon  had  risen  before  he 
heard  the  murmurous  thunder  of  the  sea  upon  the 
western  shore.  It  was  about  ten  minutes  later  when, 
beyond  a  turn  of  the  road,  he  saw  the  house  and  lights 
shining  brightly  in  its  windows.  It  was  a  small  white 
house  with  a  few  out-buildings  at  the  back,  set  in  a 
flat  peat  country  on  the  edge  of  a  great  marsh.  Ten 
yards  from  the  house  a  great  brake  of  reeds  marked 
the  beginning  of  the  marsh,  and  beyond  the  reeds 
the  bog  stretched  away  glistening  with  pools  to  the 
low  sand-hills.  Beyond  the  sand-hills  the  Atlantic 
ran  out  to  meet  the  darkness,  a  shimmering  plain  of 
silver.  One  sapling  stood  up  from  the  middle  of  the 
marsh,  and  laid  a  finger  across  the  moon.  But  except 
that  sapling,  there  were  not  any  trees. 

209 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

To  Glynn,  fresh  from  the  meadowlands  of  Leicester- 
shire with  their  neat  patterns  of  hedges,  white  gates 
and  trees,  this  corner  of  the  Outer  Hebrides  upon  the 
edge  of  the  Atlantic  had  the  wildest  and  most  desolate 
look.  The  seagulls  and  curlews  cried  perpetually  above 
the  marsh,  and  the  quiet  sea  broke  upon  the  sand  with 
a  haunting  and  mournful  sound.  Glynn  looked  at  the 
little  house  set  so  far  away  in  solitude,  and  was  glad 
that  he  had  come.  To  his  southern  way  of  thinking, 
trouble  was  best  met  and  terrors  most  easily  endured 
in  the  lighted  ways  of  cities,  where  companionship  was 
to  be  had  by  the  mere  stepping  across  the  threshold. 

When  the  trap  drove  up  to  the  door,  there  was  some 
delay  in  answering  Glynn's  summons.  A  middle-aged 
man-servant  came  at  last  to  the  door,  and  peered  out 
from  the  doorway  in  surprise. 

"I  sent  a  telegram,"  said  Glynn,  "from  Loch  Bois- 
dale.  I  am  Mr.  Glynn." 

"A  telegram?"  said  the  man.  "It  will  not  come 
up  until  the  morning,  sir." 

Then  the  voice  of  the  driver  broke  in. 

"I  brought  up  a  telegram  from  Lochmaddy.  It's 
from  a  gentleman  who  is  coming  to  visit  Mrs.  Thresk 
from  South  Uist." 

In  the  outer  islands,  where  all  are  curious,  news  is 
not  always  to  be  had,  and  the  privacy  of  the  telegraph 
system  is  not  recognised.  Glynn  laughed,  and  the 
same  moment  the  man-servant  opened  an  inner  door 

210 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

of  the  tiny  hall.  Glynn  stepped  into  a  low-roofed 
parlour  which  was  obviously  the  one  living-room  of 
the  house.  On  his  right  hand  there  was  a  great  fire- 
place with  a  peat  fire  burning  in  the  grate,  and  a 
high-backed  horsehair  sofa  in  front  of  it.  On  his  left 
at  a  small  round  table  Thresk  and  his  wife  were 
dining. 

Both  Thresk  and  his  wife  sprang  up  as  he  entered. 
Linda  advanced  to  him  with  every  mark  of  surprise 
upon  her  face. 

"You!"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hand.  "Where 
have  you  sprung  from  ?  " 

"South  Uist,"  said  Glynn,  repeating  his  lesson. 

"And  you  have  come  on  to  us!  That  is  kind  of 
you !  Martin,  you  must  take  Mr.  Glynn's  bag  up 
to  the  guest-room.  I  expect  you  will  be  wanting  your 
dinner." 

"I  sent  you  a  telegram  asking  you  whether  you 
would  mind  if  I  trespassed  upon  your  hospitality  for 
a  night  or  so." 

He  saw  Linda's  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  some 
anxiety,  and  he  continued  at  once: 

"I  sent  it  from  Loch  Boisdale." 

A  wave  of  relief  passed  over  Linda's  face. 

"It  will  not  come  up  until  the  morning,"  she  said 
with  a  smile. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  driver  brought  it  up  with 
him,"  said  Glynn.  And  Martin  handed  to  Mrs.  Thresk 

211 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

the  telegram.  Over  his  shoulder,  Glynn  saw  Thresk 
raise  his  head.  He  had  been  standing  by  the  table 
listening  to  what  was  said.  Now  he  advanced.  He 
was  a  tall  man,  powerfully  built,  with  a  strongly- 
marked,  broad  face,  which  was  only  saved  from  coarse- 
ness by  its  look  of  power.  They  made  a  strange  con- 
trast, the  husband  and  wife,  as  they  stood  side  by 
side — she  slight  and  exquisitely  delicate  in  her  colour, 
dainty  in  her  movements,  he  clumsy  and  big  and 
masterful.  Glynn  suddenly  recalled  gossip  which 
had  run  through  the  town  about  the  time  of  their 
marriage.  Linda  had  been  engaged  to  another — a  man 
whose  name  Glynn  did  not  remember,  but  on  whom, 
so  the  story  ran,  her  heart  was  set. 

"Of  course  you  are  very  welcome,"  said  Thresk, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  Glynn  noticed  with  some- 
thing of  a  shock  that  his  throat  was  bandaged.  He 
looked  towards  Linda.  Her  eyes  were  resting  upon 
him  with  a  look  of  agonised  appeal.  He  was  not  to 
remark  upon  that  wounded  throat.  He  took  Thresk's 
hand. 

"We  shall  be  delighted  if  you  will  stay  with  us  as 
long  as  you  can,"  said  Thresk.  "We  have  been  up 
here  for  more  than  three  months.  You  come  to  us 
from  another  world,  and  visitors  from  another  world 
are  always  interesting,  aren't  they,  Linda  ? " 

He  spoke  his  question  with  a  quiet  smile,  like  a  man 
secretly  amused.  But  on  Linda's  face  fear  flashed  out 

212 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

suddenly  and  was  gone.     It  seemed  to  Glynn  that 
she  was  at  pains  to  repress  a  shiver. 

"Martin  will  show  you  your  room,"  said  Thresk. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

Glynn  was  staring  at  the  table  in  consternation. 
Where  had  been  the  use  of  all  the  pretence  that  he 
had  come  unexpectedly  on  an  unpremeditated  visit? 
His  telegram  had  only  this  minute  arrived — and  yet 
there  was  the  table  laid  for  three  people.  Thresk  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his  visitor's  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

Glynn  flushed.  No  wonder  Thresk  was  amused. 
He  had  been  sitting  at  the  table;  and  between  him- 
self and  his  wife  the  third  place  was  laid. 

"I  will  go  up  and  change,"  said  Glynn  awk- 
wardly. 

"Well,  don't  be  long!"  replied  Thresk. 

Glynn  followed  Martin  to  the  guest-room.  But  he 
was  annoyed.  He  did  not,  under  any  circumstances, 
like  to  look  a  fool.  But  he  had  the  strongest  possible 
objection  to  travelling  three  hundred  miles  in  order 
to  look  it.  If  he  wanted  to  look  a  fool,  he  grumbled, 
he  could  have  managed  it  just  as  well  in  the  Mid- 
lands. 

But  he  was  to  be  more  deeply  offended.  For  when 
he  came  down  into  the  dining-room  he  walked  to  the 
table  and  drew  out  the  vacant  chair.  At  once  Thresk 
shot  out  his  hand  and  stopped  him. 

213 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"You  mustn't  sit  there!"  he  cried  violently.  Then 
his  face  changed.  Slowly  the  smile  of  amusement  re- 
appeared upon  it.  "After  all,  why  not?"  he  said. 
"Try,  yes,  try,"  and  he  watched  Glynn  with  a  strange 
intentness. 

Glynn  sat  down  slowly.  A  trick  was  being  played 
upon  him — of  that  he  was  sure.  He  was  still  more 
sure  when  Thresk's  face  relaxed  and  he  broke  into  a 
laugh. 

"Well,  that's  funny!"  he  cried,  and  Glynn,  in  ex- 
asperation, asked  indignantly: 

"What's  funny?" 

But  Thresk  was  no  longer  listening.  He  was  star- 
ing across  the  room  towards  the  front  door,  as  though 
he  heard  outside  yet  another  visitor.  Glynn  turned 
angrily  towards  Linda.  At  once  his  anger  died  away. 
Her  face  was  white  as  paper,  and  her  eyes  full  of  fear. 
Her  need  was  real,  whatever  it  might  be.  Thresk 
turned  sharply  back  again. 

"It's  a  long  journey  from  London  to  North  Uist," 
he  said  pleasantly. 

"No  doubt,"  replied  Glynn,  as  he  set  himself  to  his 
dinner.  "But  I  have  come  from  South  Uist.  How- 
.ever,  I  am  just  as  hungry  as  if  I  had  come  from  Lon- 
don." 

He  laughed,  and  Thresk  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  "for  it's  quite  a  long 
time  since  we  have  seen  you." 

214 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Yes,  it  is,"  replied  Glynn  carelessly.  "A  year,  I 
should  think." 

"Three  years,"  said  Thresk.  "For  I  don't  think 
that  you  have  ever  come  to  see  us  in  London." 

"We  are  so  seldom  there,"  interrupted  Linda. 

'"'Three  months  a  year,  my  dear,"  said  Thresk. 
"But  I  know  very  well  that  a  man  will  take  a  day's 
journey  in  the  Outer  Islands  to  see  his  friends,  where- 
as he  wouldn't  cross  the  street  in  London.  And,  in 
any  case,  we  are  very  glad  to  see  you.  By  the  way," 
and  he  reached  out  his  hand  carelessly  for  the  salt, 
"isn't  this  rather  a  new  departure  for  you,  Glynn? 
You  were  always  a  sociable  fellow.  A  hunting-box 
in  the  Midlands,  and  all  the  lighted  candles  in  the 
season.  The  Outer  Islands  were  hardly  in  your  line." 
And  he  turned  quickly  towards  him.  "You  have 
brought  your  guns  ?  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Glynn,  laughing  as  easily  as  he 
could  under  a  cross-examination  which  he  began  to 
find  anything  but  comfortable.  "But  I  won't  guar- 
antee that  I  can  shoot  any  better  than  I  used  to." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Thresk.  "We'll  shoot  the  bog 
to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  strange  if  you  don't  bring 
down  something.  It's  full  of  duck.  You  don't  mind 
getting  wet,  I  suppose  ?  There  was  once  a  man  named 

Channing "   he   broke  off  upon   the   name,   and 

laughed  again  with  that  air  of  secret  amusement. 
"Did  you  ever  hear  of  him?"  he  asked  of  Glynn. 

215 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Yes,"  replied  Glynn  slowly.     "I  knew  him." 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  he  had  seen  Linda 
flinch,  and  he  knew  why  she  flinched. 

"Did  you?"  exclaimed  Thresk,  with  a  keen  in- 
terest. "Then  you  will  appreciate  the  story.  He 
came  up  here  on  a  visit." 

Glynn  started. 

"He  came  here!"  he  cried,  and  could  have  bitten 
out  his  tongue  for  uttering  the  cry. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Thresk  easily,  "I  asked  him,"  and 
Glynn  looked  from  Thresk  to  Thresk's  wife  in  amaze- 
ment. Linda  for  once  did  not  meet  Glynn's  eyes. 
Her  own  were  fixed  upon  the  tablecloth.  She  was 
sitting  in  her  chair  rather  rigidly.  One  hand  rested 
upon  the  tablecloth,  and  it  was  tightly  clenched.  Alone 
of  the  three  James  Thresk  appeared  at  ease. 

"I  took  him  out  to  shoot  that  bog,"  he  continued 
with  a  laugh.  "He  loathed  getting  wet.  He  was  al- 
ways so  very  well  dressed,  wasn't  he,  Linda?  The 
reeds  begin  twenty  yards  from  the  front  door,  and 
within  the  first  five  minutes  he  was  up  to  the  waist ! " 
Thresk  suddenly  checked  his  laughter.  "However,  it 
ceased  to  be  a  laughing  matter.  Charming  got  a  little 
too  near  the  sapling  in  the  middle." 

"Is  it  dangerous  there?"  asked  Glynn. 

"Yes,  it's  dangerous."  Thresk  rose  from  his  chair 
and  walked  across  the  room  to  the  window.  He  pulled 
up  the  blind  and,  curving  his  hands  about  his  eyes  to 

216 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

shut  out  the  light  of  the  room,  leaned  his  face  against 
the  window-frame  and  looked  out.  "It's  more  than 
dangerous,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Just  round  that 
sapling,  it's  swift  and  certain  death.  You  would  sink 
to  the  waist,"  and  he  spoke  still  more  slowly,  as  though 
he  were  measuring  by  the  utterance  of  the  syllables 
the  time  it  would  take  for  the  disaster  to  be  complete 
— "from  the  waist  to  the  shoulders,  from  the  shoulders 
clean  out  of  sight,  before  any  help  could  reach  you." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  Glynn,  watching  him 
from  the  table,  saw  his  attitude  change.  He  dropped 
his  head,  he  hunched  his  back,  and  made  a  strange 
hissing  sound  with  his  breath. 

"Linda!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  startling  voice, 
"Linda!" 

Glynn,  unimpressionable  man  that  he  was,  started 
to  his  feet.  The  long  journey,  the  loneliness  of  the 
little  house  set  in  this  wild,  flat  country,  the  terror 
which  hung  over  it  and  was  heavy  in  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  the  rooms,  were  working  already  upon  his 
nerves. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  cried. 

Linda  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"There's  no  one,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "Take 
no  notice." 

And,  looking  at  her  quivering  face,  Glynn  was  in- 
spired to  ask  a  question,  was  wrought  up  to  believe 
that  the  answer  would  explain  to  him  why  Thresk 

217 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

leaned   his   forehead   against   the   window-pane   and 
called  upon  his  wife  in  so  strange  a  voice. 

"Did  Channing  sink — by  the  sapling?" 

"No,"  said  Linda  hurriedly,  and  as  hurriedly  she 
drew  away  in  her  chair.  Glynn  turned  and  saw  Thresk 
himself  standing  just  behind  his  shoulder.  He  had 
crept  down  noiselessly  behind  them. 

"No,"  Thresk  repeated.  "But  he  is  dead.  Didn't 
you  know  that?  Oh,  yes,  he  is  dead,"  and  suddenly  he 
broke  out  with  a  passionate  violence.  "A  clever  fellow 
— an  infernally  clever  fellow.  You  are  surprised  to 
hear  me  say  that,  Glynn.  You  underrated  him  like 
the  rest  of  us.  We  thought  him  a  milksop,  a  tame 
cat,  a  poor,  weak,  interloping,  unprofitable  creature 
who  would  sidle  obsequiously  into  your  house,  and 
make  his  home  there.  But  we  were  wrong — all  except 
Linda  there." 

Linda  sat  with  her  head  bowed,  and  said  not  a  word. 
She  was  sitting  so  that  Glynn  could  see  her  profile, 
and  though  she  said  nothing,  her  lips  were  trembling. 

"Linda  was  right,"  and  Thresk  turned  carelessly  to 
Glynn.  "Did  you  know  that  Linda  was  at  one  time 
engaged  to  Channing  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  said  Glynn  awkwardly. 

"It  was  difficult  for  most  of  us  to  understand,"  said 
Thresk.  "There  seemed  no  sort  of  reason  why  a  girl 
like  Linda  should  select  a  man  like  Channing  to  fix 
her  heart  upon.  But  she  was  right.  Channing  was 

218 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

a  clever  fellow — oh,  a  very  clever  fellow,"  and  he 
leaned  over  and  touched  Glynn  upon  the  sleeve,  "for 
he  died." 

Glynn  started  back. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  he  cried. 

Thresk  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"That  my  throat  hurts  me  to-night/'  he  said. 

Glynn  recovered  himself  with  an  effort.  "Oh,  yes," 
he  said,  as  though  now  for  the  first  time  he  had  noticed 
the  bandage.  "Yes,  I  see  you  have  hurt  your  throat. 
How  did  you  do  it?" 

Thresk  chuckled. 

"Not  very  well  done,  Glynn.    Will  you  smoke?" 

The  plates  had  been  cleared  from  the  table,  and 
the  coffee  brought  in.  Thresk  rose  from  his  seat  and 
crossed  to  the  mantelshelf  on  which  a  box  of  cigars 
was  laid.  As  he  took  up  the  box  and  turned  again 
towards  the  table,  a  parchment  scroll  which  hung  on 
a  nail  at  the  side  of  the  fireplace  caught  his  eye. 

"Do  you  see  this?"  he  said,  and  he  unrolled  it. 
"It's  my  landlord's  family  tree.  All  the  ancestors  of 
Mr.  Robert  Donald  McCullough  right  back  to  the 
days  of  Bruce.  McCullough's  prouder  of  that  scroll 
than  of  anything  else  in  the  world.  He  is  more  in- 
terested in  it  than  in  anything  else  in  the  world." 

For  a  moment  he  fingered  it,  and  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  communing  with  himself,  he  added: 

"Now,  isn't  that  curious?" 
219 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Glynn  rose  from  his  chair,  and  moved  down  the 
table  so  that  he  could  see  the  scroll  unimpeded  by 
Thresk's  bulky  figure.  Thresk,  however,  was  not 
speaking  any  longer  to  his  guest.  Glynn  sat  down 
again.  But  he  sat  down  now  in  the  chair  which  Thresk 
had  used;  the  chair  in  which  he  himself  had  been 
sitting  between  Thresk  and  Linda  was  empty. 

"What  interests  me,"  Thresk  continued,  like  a 
man  in  a  dream,  "is  what  is  happening  now — and 
very  strange,  queer,  interesting  things  are  happening 
now — for  those  who  have  eyes  to  see.  Yes,  through 
centuries  and  centuries,  McCulloughs  have  succeeded 
McCulloughs,  and  lived  in  this  distant,  little  corner 
of  the  Outer  Islands  through  forays  and  wars  and 
rebellions,  and  the  oversetting  of  kings,  and  yet 
nothing  has  ever  happened  in  this  house  to  any  one 
of  them  half  so  interesting  and  half  so  strange  as  what 
is  happening  now  to  us,  the  shooting  tenants  of  a 
year." 

Thresk  dropped  the  scroll,  and,  coming  out  of  his 
dream,  brought  the  cigar-box  to  the  table. 

"You  have  changed  your  seat!"  he  said  with  a 
smile,  as  he  offered  the  box  to  Glynn.  Glynn  took 
out  of  it  a  cigar,  and  leaning  back,  cut  off  the  end. 
As  he  stooped  forward  to  light  it,  he  saw  the  cigar- 
box  still  held  out  to  him.  Thresk  had  not  moved. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Glynn's  presence  in  the 
room.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  empty  chair. 

220 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

He  stood  strangely  rigid,  and  then  he  suddenly  cried 
out: 

"Take  care,  Linda!" 

There  was  so  sharp  a  note  of  warning  in  his  voice 
that  Linda  sprang  to  her  feet,  with  her  hand  pressed 
upon  her  heart.  Glynn  was  startled  too,  and  because 
he  was  startled  he  turned  angrily  to  Thresk. 

"Of  what  should  Mrs.  Thresk  take  care?" 

Thresk  took  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  only  for  a 
moment,  from  the  empty  chair. 

"Do  you  see  nothing?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper,  and 
his  glance  went  back  again.  "Not  a  shadow  which 
leans  across  the  table  there  towards  Linda,  darkening 
the  candle-light?" 

"No;   for  there's  nothing  to  cast  a  shadow." 

"Is  there  not?"  said  Thresk,  with  a  queer  smile. 
"That's  where  you  make  your  mistake.  Aren't  you 
conscious  of  something  very  strange,  very  insidious, 
close  by  us  in  this  room  ?  " 

"I  am  aware  that  you  are  frightening  Mrs.  Thresk," 
said  Glynn  roughly;  and,  indeed,  standing  by  the 
table,  with  her  white  face  and  her  bosom  heaving  under 
her  hand,  she  looked  the  very  embodiment  of  terror. 
Thresk  turned  at  once  to  her.  A  look  of  solicitude 
made  his  gross  face  quite  tender.  He  took  her  by  the 
arm,  and  in  a  chiding,  affectionate  tone  he  said  very 
gently: 

"You  are  not  frightened,  Linda,  are  you?  In- 
221 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

terested — yes,  just  as  I  am.  But  not  frightened. 
There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  at.  We  are  not  chil- 
dren." 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  and  she  leaned  upon  his  arm. 
He  led  her  across  to  the  sofa,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"That's  right.  Now  we  are  comfortable."  But 
the  last  word  was  not  completed.  It  seemed  that  it 
froze  upon  his  lips.  He  stopped,  looked  for  a  second 
into  space,  and  then,  dropping  his  arm  from  about 
his  wife's  waist,  he  deliberately  moved  aside  from  her, 
and  made  a  space  between  them. 

"Now  we  are  in  our  proper  places — the  four  of  us," 
he  said  bitterly. 

"The  three  of  us,"  Glynn  corrected,  as  he  walked 
round  the  table.  "Where's  the  fourth?" 

And  then  there  came  to  him  this  extraordinary 
answer  given  in  the  quietest  voice  imaginable. 

"Between  my  wife  and  me.    Where  should  he  be?" 

Glynn  stared.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room  but 
Linda,  Thresk,  and  himself — no  one.  But — but — it 
was  the  loneliness  of  the  spot,  and  its  silence,  and  its 
great  distance  from  his  world,  no  doubt,  which  troubled 
him.  Thresk's  manner,  too,  and  his  words  were  having 
their  effect.  That  was  all,  Glynn  declared  stoutly  to 
himself.  But — but — he  did  not  wonder  that  Linda 
had  written  so  urgently  for  him  to  come  to  her.  His 
back  went  cold,  and  the  hair  stirred  upon  his  scalp. 

"Who  is  it,  then?"  he  cried  violently. 
222 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Linda  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  took  a  quick  step  to- 
wards him.  Her  eyes  implored  him  to  silence. 

"There  is  no  one,"  she  protested  in  a  low  voice. 

"No,"  cried  Glynn  loudly.  "Let  us  understand 
what  wild  fancy  he  has!  Who  is  the  fourth?" 

Upon  Thresk's  face  came  a  look  of  sullenness. 

"Who  should  he  be?" 

"Who  is  he?"  Glynn  insisted. 

"Channing,"  said  Thresk.  "Mildmay  Channing." 
He  sat  for  a  while,  brooding  with  his  head  sunk  upon 
his  breast.  And  Glynn  started  back.  Some  vague 
recollection  was  stirring  in  his  memory.  There  had 
been  a  story  current  amongst  Linda's  friends  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage.  She  had  been  in  love  with  Chan- 
ning, desperately  hi  love  with  him.  The  marriage 
with  Thresk  had  been  forced  on  her  by  her  parents — 
yes,  and  by  Thresk's  persistency.  It  had  been  a  civil- 
ised imitation  of  the  Rape  of  the  Sabine  Women.  That 
was  how  the  story  ran,  Glynn  remembered.  He  waited 
to  hear  more  from  James  Thresk,  and  in  a  moment 
the  words  came,  but  in  a  thoroughly  injured  tone. 

"It's  strange  that  you  can't  see  either." 

"There  is  some  one  else,  then,  as  blind  as  I  am?" 
said  Glynn. 

"There  was.  Yes,  yes,  the  dog,"  replied  Thresk, 
gazing  into  the  fire.  "You  and  the  dog,"  he  repeated 
uneasily,  "you  and  the  dog.  But  the  dog  saw  in  the 
end,  Glynn,  and  so  will  you — even  you." 

223 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Linda  turned  quickly,  but  before  she  could  speak, 
Glynn  made  a  sign  to  her.  He  went  over  to  her  side. 
A  glance  at  Thresk  showed  him  that  he  was  lost  in 
his  thoughts. 

"If  you  want  me  to  help  you,  you  must  leave  us 
alone,"  he  said. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  swiftly  crossed 
the  room  and  went  out  at  the  door.  Glynn,  who  had 
let  his  cigar  go  out,  lit  it  again  at  the  flame  of  one  of 
the  candles  on  the  dining-table.  Then  he  planted 
himself  in  front  of  Thresk. 

"You  are  terrifying  your  wife,"  he  said.  "You 
are  frightening  her  to  death." 

Thresk  did  not  reply  to  the  accusation  directly. 
He  smiled  quietly  at  Glynn. 

"She  sent  for  you." 

Glynn  looked  uncomfortable,  and  Thresk  went  on: 

"You  haven't  come  from  South  Uist.  You  have 
come  from  London." 

"No,"  said  Glynn. 

"From  Melton,  then.  You  came  because  Linda 
sent  for  you." 

"If  it  were  so,"  stammered  Glynn,  "it  would  only 
be  another  proof  that  you  are  frightening  her." 

Thresk  shook  his  head. 

"It  wasn't  because  Linda  was  afraid  that  she  sent 
for  you,"  he  said  stubbornly.  "I  know  Linda.  I'll 
tell  you  the  truth,"  and  he  fixed  his  burning  eyes  on 

224 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Glynn's  face.     "She  sent  for  you  because  she  hates 
being  here  with  me." 

"Hates  being  with  you!"  cried  Glynn,  and  Thresk 
nodded  his  head.  Glynn  could  hardly  even  so  believe 
that  he  had  heard  aright.  "Why,  you  must  be  mad  !" 
he  protested.  "Mad  or  blind.  There's  just  one  person 
of  whom  your  wife  is  thinking,  for  whom  she  is  caring, 
for  whose  health  she  is  troubled.  It  has  been  evident 
to  me  ever  since  I  have  been  in  this  house — in  spite  of 
her  fears.  Every  time  she  looks  at  you  her  eyes  are 
tender  with  solicitude.  That  one  person  is  yourself." 

"No,"  said  Thresk.    "It's  Channing." 

"But  he's  dead,  man!"  cried  Glynn  in  exaspera- 
tion. "  You  told  me  so  yourself  not  half  an  hour  ago. 
He  is  dead." 

"Yes,"  answered  Thresk.  "He's  dead.  That's 
where  he  beat  me.  You  don't  understand  that?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  Glynn. 

He  was  speaking  aggressively;  he  stood  with  his 
legs  apart  in  an  aggressive  attitude.  Thresk  looked 
him  over  from  head  to  foot  and  agreed. 

"No,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  see  why  you  should. 
You  are  rather  like  me,  comfortable  and  common- 
place, and  of  the  earth  earthy.  Before  men  of  our 
gross  stamp  could  believe  and  understand  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  you,  they  would  have  to  reach — do  you 
mind  if  I  say  a  refinement? — by  passing  through  the 
same  fires  which  have  tempered  me." 

225 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Glynn  made  no  reply.  He  shifted  his  position  so 
that  the  firelight  might  fall  upon  Thresk's  face  with 
its  full  strength.  Thresk  leaned  forward  with  his 
hands  upon  his  knees,  and  very  quietly,  though  now 
and  then  a  note  of  scorn  rang  in  his  voice,  he  told  his 
story. 

"You  tell  me  my  wife  cares  for  me.  I  reply  that 
she  would  have  cared,  if  Channing  had  not  died.  When 
I  first  met  Linda  she  was  engaged  to  him.  You  know 
that.  She  was  devoted  to  him.  You  know  that  too. 
I  knew  it  and  I  didn't  mind.  I  wasn't  afraid  of  Chan- 
ning. A  poor,  feeble  creature — heaps  of  opportuni- 
ties, not  one  of  them  foreseen,  not  one  of  them  grasped 
when  it  came  his  way.  A  grumbler,  a  bag  of  envy, 
a  beggar  for  sympathy  at  any  woman's  lap!  Why 
should  I  have  worried  my  head  about  Channing? 
And  I  didn't.  Linda's  people  were  all  for  breaking 
off  their  engagement.  After  all,  I  was  some  good.  I 
had  made  my  way.  I  had  roughed  it  in  South  America; 
and  I  had  come  home  a  rich  man — not  such  a  very 
easy  thing,  as  the  superior  people  who  haven't  the 
heart  even  to  try  to  be  rich  men  are  inclined  to  think. 
Well,  the  engagement  was  broken  off,  Channing  hadn't 
a  penny  to  marry  on,  and  nobody  would  give  him  a 
job.  Look  here!"  And  he  suddenly  swung  round 
upon  Glynn. 

"I  gave  Channing  his  chance.  I  knew  he  couldn't 
make  any  use  of  it.  I  wanted  to  prove  he  wasn't  any 

226 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

good.  So  I  put  a  bit  of  a  railway  in  Chili  into  his 
hands,  and  he  brought  the  thing  to  the  edge  of  bank- 
ruptcy within  twelve  months.  So  the  engagement 
was  broken  off.  Linda  clung  to  the  fellow.  I  knew 
it,  and  I  didn't  mind.  She  didn't  want  to  marry  me. 
I  knew  it,  and  I  didn't  mind.  Her  parents  broke  her 
down  to  it.  She  sobbed  through  the  night  before  we 
were  married.  I  knew  it,  and  I  didn't  mind.  You 
think  me  a  beast,  of  course,"  he  added,  with  a  look  at 
Glynn.  "But  just  consider  the  case  from  my  point 
of  view.  Channing  was  no  match  for  Linda.  I  was. 
I  wanted  time,  that  was  all.  Give  me  only  time,  and 
I  knew  that  I  could  win  her." 

Boastful  as  the  words  sounded,  there  was  nothing 
aggressive  in  Thresk's  voice.  He  was  speaking  with  a 
quiet  simplicity  which  robbed  them  quite  of  offence. 
He  was  unassumingly  certain. 

"Why?"  asked  Glynn.  "Why,  given  time,  were 
you  sure  that  you  could  win  her?" 

"Because  I  wanted  enough.  That's  my  creed, 
Glynn.  If  you  want  enough,  want  with  every  thought, 
and  nerve,  and  pulse,  the  thing  you  want  comes  along 
all  right.  There  was  the  difference  between  Chan- 
ning and  me.  He  hadn't  the  heart  to  want  enough. 
I  wanted  enough  to  go  to  school  again.  I  set  myself 
to  learn  the  small  attentions  which  mean  so  much  to 
women.  They  weren't  in  my  line  naturally.  I  pay 
so  little  heed  to  things  of  that  kind  myself  that  it  did 

227 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

not  easily  occur  to  me  that  women  might  think  dif- 
ferently. But  I  learnt  my  lesson,  and  I  got  my  re- 
ward. Just  simple  little  precautions,  like  having  a 
cloak  ready  for  her,  almost  before  she  was  aware  that 
she  was  cold.  And  I  would  see  a  look  of  surprise  on 
her  face,  and  the  surprise  flush  into  a  smile  of  pleasure. 
Oh,  I  was  holding  her,  Glynn,  I  can  tell  you.  I  went 
about  it  so  very  warily,"  and  Thresk  laughed  with 
a  knowing  air.  "I  didn't  shut  my  door  on  Channing 
either.  Not  I !  I  wasn't  going  to  make  a  martyr  of 
him.  I  let  him  sidle  in  and  out  of  the  house,  and  I 
laughed.  For  I  was  holding  her.  Every  day  she  came 
a  step  or  two  nearer  to  me." 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  his  voice,  which  had 
taken  on  a  tender  and  wistful  note,  incongruous  in 
so  big  a  creature,  rose  in  a  gust  of  anger. 

"  But  he  died !    He  died  and  caught  her  back  again." 

Glynn  raised  his  hands  in  despair. 

"That  memory  has  long  since  faded,"  he  argued, 
and  Thresk  burst  out  in  a  bitter  laugh. 

"Memory,"  he  cried,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair. 
"You  are  one  of  the  imaginative  people  after  all, 
Glynn."  And  Glynn  stared  in  round-eyed  surprise. 
Here  to  him  was  conclusive  proof  that  there  was  some- 
thing seriously  wrong  with  Thresk's  mind.  Never 
had  Mr.  Glynn  been  called  imaginative  before,  and 
his  soul  revolted  against  the  aspersion.  "Yes,"  said 
Thresk,  pointing  an  accusing  finger.  "  Imaginative ! 

228 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

I  am  one  of  the  practical  people.  I  don't  worry  about 
memories.  Actual  real  things  interest  me — such  as 
Channing's  presence  now — in  this  house."  And  he 
spoke  suddenly,  leaning  forward  with  so  burning  a 
fire  in  his  eyes  and  voice  that  Glynn,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, looked  nervously  across  his  shoulder.  He  rose 
hastily  from  the  sofa,  and  rather  in  order  to  speak  than 
with  any  thought  of  what  he  was  saying,  he  asked: 

"When  did  he  die?" 

"Four  months  ago.    I  was  ill  at  the  time." 

"Ah!" 

The  exclamation  sprang  from  Glynn's  lips  before 
he  could  check  it.  Here  to  him  was  the  explanation 
of  Thresk's  illusions.  But  he  was  sorry  that  he  had 
not  kept  silent.  For  he  saw  Thresk  staring  angrily  at 
him. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  your  ' Ah'  ?"  Thresk  asked 
roughly. 

"Merely  that  I  had  seen  a  line  about  your  illness 
in  a  newspaper,"  Glynn  explained  hastily. 

Thresk  leaned  back  satisfied. 

"Yes,"  he  resumed.  "I  broke  down.  I  had  had  a 
hard  life,  you  see,  and  I  was  paying  for  it.  I  am  right 
enough  now,  however,"  and  his  voice  rose  in  a  chal- 
lenge to  Glynn  to  contradict  him. 

Nothing  was  further  from  Glynn's  thoughts. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  quickly. 

"I  saw  Channing's  death  hi  the  obituary  column 
229 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

whilst  I  was  lying  in  bed,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  was  relieved  by  it." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  mind  about 
Channing?"  Glynn  interrupted,  and  Thresk  laughed 
with  a  little  discomfort. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  did  mind  a  little  more  than  I  care 
to  admit,"  Thresk  confessed.  "At  all  events,  I  felt 
relieved  at  his  death.  What  a  fool  I  was!"  And  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  as  though  he  wondered  now 
that  his  mind  was  so  clear,  at  the  delusion  which  had 
beset  him. 

"I  thought  that  it  was  all  over  with  Channing.  Oh, 
what  a  fool  I  was!  Even  after  he  came  back  and 
would  sidle  up  to  my  bedside  in  his  old  fawning  style, 
I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  take  him  seriously,  and  I 
was  only  amused." 

"He  came  to  your  bedside!"  exclaimed  Glynn. 

"Yes,"  replied  Thresk,  and  he  laughed  at  the  recol- 
lection. "He  came  with  his  humble  smirk,  and  pot- 
tered about  the  room  as  if  he  were  my  nurse.  I  put 
out  my  tongue  at  him,  and  told  him  he  was  dead  and 
done  for,  and  that  he  had  better  not  meddle  with  the 
bottles  on  my  table.  Yes,  he  amused  me.  What  a  fool 
I  was !  I  thought  no  one  else  saw  him.  That  was  my 
first  mistake.  I  thought  he  was  helpless.  .  .  .  That 
was  my  second." 

Thresk  got  up  from  his  chair,  and,  standing  over 
the  fireplace,  knocked  the  ash  off  his  cigar. 

230 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Do  you  remember  a  great  Danish  boar-hound  I 
used  to  have  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Glynn,  puzzled  by  the  sudden  change 
of  subject.  "  But  what  has  the  boar-hound  to  do  with 
your  story  ?  " 

"A  good  deal,"  said  Thresk.  "I  was  very  fond  of 
that  dog." 

"The  dog  was  fond  of  you,"  said  Glynn. 

"Yes.  Remember  that!"  Thresk  cried  suddenly. 
"For  it's  true."  Then  he  relapsed  again  into  a  quiet, 
level  voice. 

"It  took  me  some  time  to  get  well.  I  was  moved 
up  here.  It  was  the  one  place  where  I  wanted  to  be. 
But  I  wasn't  used  to  sitting  round  and  doing  nothing. 
So  the  time  of  my  convalescence  hung  pretty  heavily, 
and,  casting  about  for  some  way  of  amusing  myself, 
I  wondered  whether  I  could  teach  the  dog  to  see  Chan- 
ning  as  I  saw  him.  I  tried.  Whenever  I  saw  Chan- 
ning  come  in  at  the  door,  I  used  to  call  the  dog  to  my 
side  and  point  Channing  out  to  him  with  my  finger  as 
Channing  moved  about  the  room." 

Thresk  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  to  Glynn,  and 
with  a  singular  alertness  began  to  act  over  again  the 
scenes  which  had  taken  place  in  his  sick  room  up- 
stairs. 

"I  used  to  say,  'Hst!  Hst!'  'There!  Do  you 
see  ?  By  the  window ! '  or  if  Channing  moved  towards 
Linda  I  would  turn  the  dog's  head  and  make  his  eyes 

231 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

follow  him  across  the  room.  At  first  the  dog  saw 
nothing.  Then  he  began  to  avoid  me,  to  slink  away 
with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  to  growl.  He  was  fright- 
ened. Yes,  he  was  frightened ! "  And  Thresk  nodded 
his  head  in  a  quick,  interested  way. 

"He  was  frightened  of  you,"  cried  Glynn,  "and  I 
don't  wonder." 

For  even  to  him  there  was  something  uncanny  and 
impish  in  Thresk's  quick  movements  and  vivid  ges- 
tures. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Thresk.  "He  was  frightened, 
but  not  of  me.  He  saw  Channing.  His  hair  bristled 
under  my  fingers  as  I  pointed  the  fellow  out.  I  had 
to  keep  one  hand  on  his  neck,  you  see,  to  keep  him  by 
me.  He  began  to  yelp  in  a  queer,  panicky  way,  and 
tremble — a  man  in  a  fever  couldn't  tremble  and  shake 
any  more  than  that  dog  did.  And  then  one  day,  when 
we  were  alone  together,  the  dog  and  I  and  Channing 
— the  dog  sprang  at  my  throat." 

"That's  how  you  were  wounded!"  cried  Glynn, 
leaping  from  his  sofa.  He  stood  staring  in  horror  at 
Thresk.  "I  wonder  the  dog  didn't  kill  you." 

"He  very  nearly  did,"  said  Thresk.  "Oh,  very 
nearly." 

"You  had  frightened  him  out  of  his  wits." 

Thresk  laughed  contemptuously. 

"That's  the  obvious  explanation,  of  course,"  he 
said.  "But  it's  not  the  true  one.  I  have  been  living 

232 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

amongst  the  subtleties  of  life.  I  know  about  things 
now.  The  dog  sprang  at  me  because — "  He  stopped 
and  glanced  uneasily  about  the  room.  When  he  raised 
his  face  again,  there  was  a  look  upon  it  which  Glynn 
had  not  seen  there  before — a  look  of  sudden  terror. 
He  leaned  forward  that  he  might  be  the  nearer  to 
Glynn,  and  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — "well,  be- 
cause Channing  set  him  on  to  me." 

It  was  no  doubt  less  the  statement  itself  than  the 
crafty  look  which  accompanied  it,  and  the  whisper 
which  uttered  it,  that  shocked  Glynn.  But  he  was 
shocked.  There  came  upon  him — yes,  even  upon 
him,  the  sane,  prosaic  Glynn — a  sudden  doubt  whether, 
after  all,  Thresk  was  mad.  It  occurred  to  him  as  a 
possibility  that  Thresk  was  speaking  the  mere,  bare 
truth.  Suppose  that  it  were  the  truth!  Suppose 
that  Channing  were  here !  In  this  room !  Glynn  felt 
the  flesh  creep  upon  his  bones. 

"Ah,  you  are  beginning  to  understand,"  said  Thresk, 
watching  his  companion.  "You  are  beginning  to  get 
frightened,  too."  And  he  nodded  his  head  in  compre- 
hension. "I  used  not  to  know  what  fear  meant.  But 
I  knew  the  meaning  well  enough  as  soon  as  I  had 
guessed  why  the  dog  sprang  at  my  throat.  For  I 
realised  my  helplessness." 

Throughout  their  conversation  Glynn  had  been  per- 
petually puzzled  by  something  unexpected  in  Thresk*s 
conclusions.  He  followed  his  reasoning  up  to  a  point, 

233 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

and  then  came  a  word  which  left  him  at  a  loss.  Thresk's 
fear  he  understood.  But  why  the  sense  of  helplessness  ? 
And  he  asked  for  an  explanation. 

"Because  I  had  no  weapons  to  fight  Channing 
with,"  Thresk  replied.  "I  could  cope  with  the  living 
man  and  win  every  time.  But  against  the  dead  man 
I  was  helpless.  I  couldn't  hurt  him.  I  couldn't  even 
come  to  grips  with  him.  I  had  just  to  sit  by  and  make 
room.  And  that's  what  I  have  been  doing  ever  since. 
I  have  been  sitting  by  and  watching — without  a  single 
resource,  without  a  single  opportunity  of  a  counter- 
stroke.  Oh,  I  had  my  tune — when  Channing  was 
alive.  But  upon  my  word,  he  has  the  best  of  it.  Here 
I  sit  without  raising  a  hand  while  he  recaptures 
Linda." 

"There  you  are  wrong,"  cried  Glynn,  seizing  gladly, 
in  the  midst  of  these  subtleties,  upon  some  fact  of 
which  he  felt  sure.  "Your  wife  is  yours.  There  has 
been  no  recapture.  Besides,  she  doesn't  believe  that 
Channing  is  here." 

Thresk  laughed. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  tell  me  if  she  did?"  he 
asked.  "No." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and,  walking  to  the  window, 
thrust  back  the  curtains  and  looked  out.  So  he  stood 
for  the  space  of  a  minute.  Then  he  came  back  and, 
looking  fixedly  at  Glynn,  said  with  an  air  of  extraor- 
dinary cunning: 

234 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"But  I  have  a  plan.  Yes,  I  have  a  plan.  I  shall  get 
on  level  terms  with  Mr.  Channing  again  one  of  these 
fine  days,  and  then  I'll  prove  to  him  for  a  second  time 
which  of  us  two  is  the  better  man." 

He  made  a  sign  to  Glynn,  and  looked  towards  the 
door.  It  was  already  opening.  He  advanced  to  it  as 
Linda  came  into  the  room. 

"You  have  come  back,  Linda!  I  have  been  talk- 
ing to  Glynn  at  such  a  rate  that  he  hasn't  been  able  to 
get  a  word  in  edgeways,"  he  said,  with  a  swift  change 
to  a  gaiety  of  voice  and  manner.  "However,  I'll  show 
him  a  good  day's  sport  to-morrow,  Linda.  We  will 
shoot  the  bog,  and  perhaps  you'll  come  out  with  the 
luncheon  to  the  sand-hills?" 

Linda  Thresk  smiled. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  she  said.  She  showed  to  Glynn 
a  face  of  gratitude.  "It  has  done  you  good,  Jim,  to 
have  a  man  to  talk  to,"  and  she  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
husband's  arm  and  laughed  quite  happily.  Glynn 
turned  his  back  upon  them  and  walked  up  to  the 
window,  leaving  them  standing  side  by  side  in  the 
firelight.  Outside,  the  moon  shone  from  a  clear  sky 
upon  the  pools  and  the  reeds  of  the  marsh  and  the 
low  white  sand-hills,  chequered  with  their  tufts  of 
grass.  But  upon  the  sea  beyond,  a  white  mist  lay 
thick  and  low. 

"There's  a  sea-fog,"  said  Glynn;  and  Thresk,  at 
the  fire,  suddenly  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  towards 

235 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

the  window  with  a  strange  intensity.  One  might  have 
thought  that  a  sea-fog  was  a  strange,  unusual  thing 
among  the  Outer  Islands. 

"Watch  it!"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  vibration  in 
his  voice  which  matched  the  intensity  of  his  look. 
"You  will  see  it  suddenly  creep  through  the  gaps  in 
the  sand-hills  and  pass  over  the  marsh  like  an  army 
that  obeys  a  command.  I  have  watched  it  by  the 
hour,  tune  and  tune  again.  It  gathers  on  the  level 
of  the  sea  and  waits  and  waits  until  it  seems  that  the 
word  is  given.  Then  it  comes  swirling  through  the  gaps 
of  the  sand-hills  and  eats  up  the  marsh  in  a  minute." 

Even  as  he  spoke  Glynn  cried  out: 

"That's  extraordinary !" 

The  fog  had  crept  out  through  the  gaps.  Only  the 
summits  of  the  sand-hills  rose  in  the  moonlight  like 
little  peaks  above  clouds;  and  over  the  marsh  the 
fog  burst  like  cannon  smoke  and  lay  curling  and  writh- 
ing up  to  the  very  reeds  twenty  yards  from  the  house. 
The  sapling  alone  stood  high  above  it,  like  the  mast 
of  a  wreck  in  the  sea. 

"How  high  is  it?"  asked  Thresk. 

"Breast  high,"  replied  Glynn. 

"Only  breast  high,"  said  Thresk,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  a  note  of  disappointment  in  his  voice.  However, 
in  the  next  moment  he  shook  it  off.  "  The  fog  will  be 
gone  before  morning,"  he  said.  "  I'll  go  and  tell  Donald 
to  bring  the  dogs  round  at  nine  to-morrow,  and  have 

236 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

your  guns  ready.    Nine  is  not  too  early  for  you,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Glynn;  and  Thresk,  going  up  to 
the  door  which  led  from  the  house,  opened  it,  went 
out,  and  closed  it  again  behind  him. 

Glynn  turned  at  once  towards  Linda  Thresk.  But 
she  held  up  a  warning  hand,  and  waited  for  the  outer 
door  to  slam.  No  sound,  however,  broke  the  silence. 
Glynn  went  to  the  inner  door  and  opened  it.  A  bank 
of  white  fog,  upon  which  he  saw  his  own  shadow  most 
brightly  limned  by  the  light  behind  him,  filled  the 
outer  passage  and  crept  by  him  into  the  room.  Glynn 
closed  the  latch  quickly. 

"He  has  left  the  outer  door  open,"  he  said,  and, 
coming  back  into  the  room  he  stood  beside  the  fire 
looking  down  into  Linda's  face. 

"He  has  been  talking  to  me,"  said  Glynn. 

Linda  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"How  much  did  he  tell  you?" 

"There  can  be  little  he  left  unsaid.  He  told  me  of 
the  dog,  of  Channing's  death " 

"Yes?" 

"Of  Channing's  return." 

"Yes?" 

"And  of  you." 

With  each  sentence  Glynn's  embarrassment  had  in- 
creased. Linda,  however,  held  him  to  his  story. 

"What  did  he  say  of  me?" 
237 


"That  but  for  Channing's  death  he  would  have 
held  you.  That  since  Charming  died — and  came  back 
— he  had  lost  you." 

Linda  nodded  her  head.  Nothing  in  Glynn's  words 
surprised  her — that  was  clear.  It  was  a  story  already 
familiar  to  her  which  he  was  repeating. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said. 

"I  think  so.  Yes,"  replied  Glynn,  glad  to  get  the 
business  over.  Yet  he  had  omitted  the  most  important 
part  of  Thresk's  confession — the  one  part  which  Linda 
did  not  already  know.  He  omitted  it  because  he  had 
forgotten  it.  There  was  something  else  which  he  had 
in  his  mind  to  say. 

"When  Thresk  told  me  that  Channing  had  won 
you  back,  I  ventured  to  say  that  no  one  watching 
you  and  Thresk,  even  with  the  most  indifferent  eyes, 
could  doubt  that  it  was  always  and  only  of  him  that 
you  were  thinking." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Linda,  quietly.    "That  is  true." 

"And  now,"  said  Glynn,  "I  want,  in  my  turn,  to 
ask  you  a  question.  I  have  been  a  little  curious.  I 
want,  too,  to  do  what  I  can.  Therefore,  I  ask 
you,  why  did  you  send  for  me?  What  is  it  that 
you  think  I  can  do?  That  other  friends  of  yours 
can't?" 

A  slight  colour  came  into  Linda's  cheeks;  and  for 
a  moment  she  lowered  her  eyes.  She  spoke  with  an 
accent  of  apology. 

238 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"It  is  quite  true  that  there  are  friends  whom  I  see 
more  constantly  than  you,  Mr.  Glynn,  and  upon  whom 
I  have,  perhaps,  greater  claims." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  mean  you  to  think  that  I  was  re- 
luctant to  come,"  Glynn  exclaimed,  and  Linda  smiled, 
lifting  her  eyes  to  his. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  remembered  your  kindness.  It 
was  that  recollection  which  helped  me  to  appeal  to 
you,"  and  she  resumed  her  explanation  as  though  he 
had  never  interrupted  her. 

"Nor  was  there  any  particular  thing  which  I 
thought  you  could  do.  But — well,  here's  the  truth — 
I  have  been  living  in  terror.  This  house  has  become 
a  house  of  terror.  I  am  frightened,  and  I  have  come 

almost  to  believe "  and  she  looked  about  her  with 

a  shiver  of  her  shoulders,  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whisper 
as  she  spoke — "that  Jim  was  right — that  he  is  here 
after  all." 

And  Glynn  recoiled.  Just  for  a  moment  the  same 
fancy  had  occurred  to  him. 

"You  don't  believe  that — really!"  he  cried. 

"No — no,"  she  answered.  "Once  I  think  calmly. 
But  it  is  so  difficult  to  think  calmly  and  reasonably 

here.  Oh "  and  she  threw  up  her  arms  suddenly, 

and  her  whole  face  and  eyes  were  alight  with  terror — 
"the  very  air  is  to  me  heavy  with  fear  in  this  house. 
It  is  Jim's  quiet  certainty." 

"Yes,  that's  it!"  exclaimed  Glynn,  catching  eagerly 
239 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

at  that  explanation  because  it  absolved  him  to  his 
own  common  sense  for  the  inexplicable  fear  which  he 
had  felt  invade  himself.  "Yes,  Jim's  quiet,  certain, 
commonplace  way  in  which  he  speaks  of  Channing's 
presence  here.  That's  what  makes  his  illusion  so  con- 
vincing." 

"Well,  I  thought  that  if  I  could  get  you  here,  you 
who "  and  she  hesitated  in  order  to  make  her  de- 
scription polite — "are  not  afflicted  by  fancies,  who  are 
pleasantly  sensible" — thus  did  Linda  express  her  faith 
that  Mr.  Glynn  was  of  the  earth,  earthy — "I  myself 
should  lose  my  terror,  and  Jim,  too,  might  lose  his 
illusion.  But  now,"  she  looked  at  him  keenly,  "I 
think  that  Jim  is  affecting  you — that  you,  too — yes" 
— she  sprang  up  suddenly  and  stood  before  him,  with 
her  dark,  terror-haunted  eyes  fixed  upon  him — "that 
you,  too,  believe  Mildmay  Channing  is  here." 

"No,"  he  protested  violently — too  violently  unless 
the  accusation  were  true. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  nodding  her  head  quietly. 
"You,  too,  believe  that  Mildmay  Channing  is  here." 

And  before  her  horror-stricken  face  the  protest 
which  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  remained  unuttered. 
His  eyes  sought  the  floor.  With  a  sudden  movement 
of  despair  Linda  turned  aside.  Even  the  earthliness 
of  Mr.  Glynn  had  brought  her  no  comfort  or  security. 
He  had  fallen  under  the  spell,  as  she  had  done.  It 
seemed  that  they  had  no  more  words  to  speak  to  one 

240 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

another.  They  stood  and  waited  helplessly  until 
Thresk  should  return. 

But  that  return  was  delayed. 

"He  has  been  a  long  time  speaking  to  the  keeper," 
said  Linda  listlessly,  and  rather  to  break  a  silence 
which  was  becoming  intolerable,  than  with  any  in- 
tention in  the  words.  But  they  struck  a  chord  of 
terror  in  Glynn's  thoughts.  He  walked  quickly  to 
the  window,  and  hastily  tore  the  curtain  aside. 

The  flurry  of  his  movements  aroused  Linda's  atten- 
tion. She  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  She  saw  him 
curve  his  hands  about  his  forehead  and  press  his  face 
against  the  pane,  even  as  Thresk  had  done  an  hour 
before.  She  started  forward  from  the  fireplace  and 
Glynn  swung  round  with  his  arms  extended,  barring 
the  window.  His  face  was  white,  his  lips  shook.  The 
one  important  statement  of  Thresk's  he  now  recalled. 

"Don't  look!"  he  cried,  and  as  he  spoke,  Linda 
pushed  past  him.  She  flung  up  the  window.  Outside 
the  fog  curled  and  smoked  upon  the  marsh  breast 
high.  The  moonlight  played  upon  it;  above  it  the 
air  was  clear  and  pure,  and  in  the  sky  stars  shone 
faintly.  Above  the  mist  the  bare  sapling  stood  like 
a  pointing  finger,  and  halfway  between  the  sapling 
and  the  house  Thresk's  head  and  shoulders  showed 
plain  to  see.  But  they  were  turned  away  from  the 
house. 

"Jim!  Jim!"  cried  Linda,  shaking  the  window- 
241 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

frame  with  her  hand.  Her  voice  rang  loudly  out  on 
the  still  air.  But  Thresk  never  so  much  as  turned  his 
head.  He  moved  slowly  towards  the  sapling,  feeling 
the  unstable  ground  beneath  him  with  his  feet. 

"Jim!  Jim!"  again  she  cried.  And  behind  her 
she  heard  a  strange,  unsteady  whispering  voice. 

"'On  equal  terms!'  That's  what  he  said — I  did 
not  understand.  He  said,  'On  equal  terms.'" 

And  even  as  Glynn  spoke,  both  Linda  and  he  saw 
Thresk  throw  up  his  arms  and  sink  suddenly  beneath 
the  bog.  Linda  ran  to  the  door,  stumbling  as  she  ran, 
and  with  a  queer,  sobbing  noise  in  her  throat. 

Glynn  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"It  is  of  no  use.  You  know.  Round  the  sapling — 
there  is  no  chance  of  rescue.  It  is  my  fault,  I  should 
have  understood.  He  had  no  fear  of  Channing — 
if  only  he  could  meet  him  on  equal  terms." 

Linda  stared  at  Glynn.  For  a  little  while  the 
meaning  of  the  words  did  not  sink  into  her  mind. 

"He  said  that!"  she  cried.  "And  you  did  not  tell 
me."  She  crept  back  to  the  fireplace  and  cowered  in 
front  of  it,  shivering. 

"But  he  said  he  would  come  back  to  me,"  she  said 
in  the  voice  of  a  child  who  has  been  deceived.  "Yes, 
Jim  said  he  would  come  back  to  me." 

Of  course  it  was  a  chance,  accident,  coincidence,  a 
breath  of  wind — call  it  what  you  will,  except  what 
Linda  Thresk  and  Glynn  called  it.  But  even  as 

242 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

she  uttered  her  complaint,  "He  said  he  would  come 
back  to  me,"  the  latch  of  the  door  clicked  loudly. 
There  was  a  rush  of  cold  air  into  the  room.  The  door 
swung  slowly  inwards  and  stood  wide  open. 

Linda  sprang  to  her  feet.  Both  she  and  Glynn 
turned  to  the  open  door.  The  white  fog  billowed  into 
the  room.  Glynn  felt  the  hair  stir  and  move  upon  his 
scalp.  He  stood  transfixed.  Was  it  possible?  he 
asked  himself.  Had  Thresk  indeed  come  back  to 
fight  for  Linda  once  more,  and  to  fight  now  as  he  had 
fought  the  first  time — on  equal  terms?  He  stood 
expecting  the  white  fog  to  shape  itself  into  the  likeness 
of  a  man.  And  then  he  heard  a  wild  scream  of  laughter 
behind  him.  He  turned  in  time  to  catch  Linda  as  she 
fell. 


243 


THE  BROWN  BOOK 


THE  BROWN  BOOK 

A  few  friends  of  Murgatroyd,  the  physician,  sat 
about  his  dinner-table,  discussing  that  perplexing 
question,  "How  much  of  the  truth  should  a  doctor 
tell?"  In  the  middle  of  the  discussion  a  quiet  voice 
spoke  up  from  a  corner,  and  all  turned  towards  a 
middle-aged  man  of  European  reputation  who  sat 
fingering  the  stem  of  his  wine-glass. 

"It  is  dangerous  to  lay  down  a  general  rule,"  said 
Sir  James  Kelsey.  "But  I  should  say,  if  you  want  to 
keep  a  secret  tell  half  the  truth.  People  accept  it 
and  pass  on  to  their  own  affairs."  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment  and  continued,  rather  slowly:  "I  am 
thinking  of  a  tremendous  secret  which  has  been  kept 
that  way  for  a  good  number  of  years.  I  call  it  the 
story  of  the  Brown  Book." 

At  once  the  discussion  ceased.  It  was  so  seldom  that 
Kelsey  indulged  in  anything  like  a  confidence.  Now 
on  this  one  evening  amongst  his  brethren  it  seemed 
that  he  was  in  the  mood  to  talk. 

"  All  of  you  will  remember  the  name  of  John  Rymer, 
and  some  of  you  his  meteoric  career  and  the  tragic 
circumstances  of  his  death.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  he  was  a  master  of  surgery.  Yet  at  the  age  of 
thirty-seven,  at  eleven  o'clock  on  a  July  morning, 

247 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

after  performing  three  operations  with  all  his  accus- 
tomed skill,  he  walked  into  his  consulting-room  and 
blew  his  brains  out." 

Here  and  there  a  voice  was  raised. 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"It  was  overwork,  I  think." 

Sir  James  Kelsey  smiled. 

"Exactly,"  he  said.  "That's  the  half-truth.  Over- 
work there  was.  I  am  familiar  with  the  details  of  the 
inquest,  for  I  married  John  Rymer's  niece.  It  was 
proved,  for  instance,  that  during  the  last  week  of  his 
life  he  had  been  curtailing  his  operations  and  spending 
more  time  over  his  dressings — a  definite  policy  of  his 
when  the  strain  became  too  heavy.  Moreover,  there 
was  some  mention  made  of  a  sudden  reasonless  fear 
which  had  attacked  him,  a  fear  that  his  practice  was 
dropping  away,  and  that  he  would  be  left  with  a  wife 
and  young  family  to  support,  and  no  means  to  do  it 
with.  Well,  we  all  know  round  this  table  that  that 
particular  terror  is  one  of  the  commonest  results  of 
overwork.  So  overwork  there  undoubtedly  was.  A 
spell  of  tropical  heat  no  doubt,  too,  had  its  effect.  Any- 
wray,  here  was  enough  for  a  quite  acceptable  verdict, 
and  so  the  world  thought.  The  usual  platitudes  about 
the  tension  of  modern  life  made  their  appearance. 
The  public  read,  accepted,  and  passed  on  to  its  own 
affairs.  But  behind  John  Rymer's  death  there  lay  a 
tremendous  secret." 

248 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

Once  more  he  hesitated.  Then  he  took  a  cigar  from 
the  box  which  his  host  held  out  to  him,  and  said,  in  a 
kind  of  rush:  "No  one  could  make  any  use  of  it  now. 
For  there's  no  longer  any  evidence  but  my  word,  and  I 
should  deny  it.  It's  overwork  John  Rymer  died  of. 
Let  us  not  forget  it." 

And  then  he  told  the  story  of  the  Brown  Book.  At 
the  end  of  it  his  cigar  was  still  alight,  for  he  smoked 
while  he  talked.  But  it  was  the  only  cigar  alight  in 
that  room. 

I  was  twenty-five,  and  I  had  bought  a  practice  at 
Chailsey,  a  village  deep  amongst  tall,  dark  trees  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  Berkshire  Downs.  You'll  hardly 
find  a  place  more  pastoral  and  remote  in  all  that 
country  of  remote  villages.  But  a  couple  of  training 
stables  were  established  there,  and,  what  with  kicks 
and  jumping  accidents,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  work 
at  times.  I  quite  liked  the  spot,  and  I  liked  it  still 
more  when  Bradley  Rymer  and  his  daughter  took  the 
big  house  on  the  slope  of  the  Down  above  the  village. 

John  Rymer,  the  surgeon,  had  then  been  dead  eight 
months,  and  Bradley  Rymer  was  his  brother,  a  short- 
ish, broad  man  of  forty-five  with  a  big,  pleasant  face. 
Gossip  had  it  that  he  had  been  very  poor,  so  poor, 
indeed,  that  his  daughter  had  made  her  living  at  a 
typewriting  machine.  There  was  no  doubt,  however, 
that  he  was  rich  now.  "Canada's  the  country," 

249 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

he  used  to  say.  "  I  made  my  money  out  of  Canadian 
land/'  and  when  he  fell  into  conversation  of  a  morning 
with  any  of  the  stable-boys  on  the  gallops  he  was 
always  urging  them  to  better  themselves  in  that 
country. 

His  daughter  Violet — a  good  many  of  you  know  her 
as  my  wife — had  little  of  his  fore-gathering  disposition. 
She  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl  of  nineteen,  with 
eyes  which  matched  her  name.  But  she  held  herself 
apart.  She  seldom  came  down  into  the  village,  and 
even  when  one  met  her  in  her  own  house  there  was  a 
constraint  in  her  manner  and  a  look  upon  her  face 
which  I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand.  It  wasn't  merely 
trouble.  It  was  a  kind  of  perplexity,  as  though  she 
did  not  know  where  to  turn.  For  the  rest,  the  couple 
did  not  entertain. 

"We  have  had  hard  lives,"  Bradley  Rymer  said  to 
me  one  rare  evening  when  I  dined  there,  "and  a  year 
or  two  of  quiet  is  what  we  want  beyond  everything." 
And  never  did  man  speak  a  truer  word. 

Bradley  Rymer  had  lived  for  three  months  at  Chail- 
sey  when  Queen  Victoria  died,  and  all  the  great  kings 
and  the  little  kings  flocked  from  Europe  to  her  funeral. 
We  at  Chailsey — like  the  rest  of  Great  Britain — de- 
termined to  set  up  a  memorial,  and  a  committee  of 
five  was  appointed  to  determine  the  form  it  was  to 
take. 

"It  must  be  a  drinking-fountain,"  said  I. 
250 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

"No;  a  stained-glass  window,"  the  vicar  inter- 
rupted; and  there  we  were,  Grayly  the  trainer  and 
I  on  one  side,  the  vicar  and  Hollams  the  grocer  on  the 
other.  The  fifth  member  of  the  committee  was  absent. 

"Well,  I  shall  go  up  and  see  Mr.  Bradley  Rymer 
this  afternoon,"  I  said.  "He  has  the  casting  vote." 

"You  may  do  just  as  you  please,"  said  the  vicar, 
with  some  acerbity — Bradley  Rymer  did  not  go  to 
church;  "but  until  Mr.  "Bradley  Rymer  condescends 
to  be  present  at  our  committee  meetings,  I  shall  pay 
not  the  slightest  attention  to  his  opinion." 

Thereupon  the  committee  broke  up.  I  had  a  good 
many  visits  to  pay  to  patients,  and  it  was  close  upon 
eight  o'clock  when  I  set  out  upon  my  walk,  and  darker 
than  it  usually  is  at  that  time  of  the  year.  Bradley 
Rymer,  I  knew,  did  not  dine  until  late,  and  I  hoped 
to  catch  him  just  before  he  and  Violet  sat  down. 

The  house  stood  a  good  half-mile  from  the  village, 
even  by  the  short  cut  which  I  took  up  the  side  of  the 
Down.  It  was  a  big,  square  Georgian  house  with 
rows  of  high,  flat  windows;  a  large  garden  of  lawns 
and  flowers  and  beech  trees  surrounded  it;  and  the 
whole  property  was  enclosed  in  high  red-brick  walls. 
I  was  kept  for  a  little  while  at  the  great  wrought-iron 
gates.  That  always  happened.  You  rang  the  big 
bell,  the  corner  of  a  white  curtain  was  cautiously 
lifted  in  the  window  of  the  lodge,  you  were  inspected, 
and  at  last  the  gates  swung  open.  Berkshire  people 

251 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

were  slow  in  those  days,  and,  like  most  country-folk, 
curious.  I  walked  up  the  drive  to  the  house.  The 
front  door  stood  open.  I  rang  the  bell.  A  big  mas- 
tiff came  out  from  the  hall  and  sniffed  at  me.  But  we 
were  good  friends,  and  he  retired  again  to  the  corner. 
Finally  a  maid-servant  appeared.  It  was  perhaps  a 
curious  fact  that  Bradley  Rymer  had  no  man-servant 
living  in  the  house. 

"A  butler  is  a  spy  you  set  upon  yourself,"  he  once 
said  to  me.  Another  case  of  the  half-truth,  you  see. 
I  accepted  it,  and  passed  on  to  my  own  affairs.  So 
when  only  a  maid  answered  the  bell  I  was  not  surprised. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Rymer?"  I  asked. 

"He  is  in  the  library,  I  think,  sir,"  she  answered. 

"Very  well.  I  know  my  way."  And,  putting 
down  my  hat,  I  climbed  the  stairs. 

The  library  was  a  long,  comfortably-furnished  room 
upon  the  first  floor,  lighted  by  a  row  of  windows  upon 
one  side  and  lined  to  the  ceiling  with  bookshelves  upon 
the  other.  Rymer  had  a  wonderful  collection  of  books 
bound  in  vellum  and  calf,  but  he  had  bought  the  lot  at 
a  sale,  and  I  don't  think  he  ever  read  one  of  them. 
However,  he  liked  the  room,  and  it  was  the  one  which 
he  usually  used. 

I  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  library.  But 
the  servant  had  been  mistaken.  The  library  was 
empty.  I  waited,  however,  and  while  I  waited  a 
noise  in  the  next  room  attracted  my  attention.  I 

252 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

don't  think  that  I  was  conscious  of  it  at  first,  for  when 
I  did  notice  it,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  room  had  per- 
ceptibly darkened.  It  was  so  familiar  a  noise,  too, 
that  one  wouldn't  notice  it  unless  there  were  some 
special  unsuitability  of  time  and  place  to  provoke 
one's  curiosity.  For  a  busy  man  walks  through  life 
to  the  sound  of  it.  It  was  the  sharp  tack-tack-tack 
of  a  typewriting  machine,  with  the  little  clang  and 
break  when  the  end  of  a  line  is  reached.  I  listened 
to  it  first  of  all  surprised  at  the  relentless  rapidity 
with  which  the  machine  was  worked,  and  then,  won- 
dering why  at  this  hour,  in  this  house  of  leisure  and 
wealth,  so  tremendous  an  assiduity  was  being  em- 
ployed. Then  in  a  rush  the  gossip  of  the  village  came 
back  to  me.  Violet  Rymer,  in  the  days  of  her  father's 
poverty,  had  made  her  living  in  a  typewriting  office. 
Yes;  but  why  should  she  continue  so  monotonous  a 
practice  now?  I  couldn't  think  that  she,  if  it  were 
she,  was  keeping  up  her  proficiency  for  amusement. 
You  can  always  tell  whether  the  typist  is  interested 
or  whether  she  is  working  against  time  from  the  sound 
of  the  machine.  In  the  former  case  it  becomes  alive, 
one  is  conscious  of  a  personality;  in  the  latter  one 
thinks  of  an  absent-minded  clergyman  gabbling  through 
the  Lessons  in  church. 

Well,  it  was  just  that  last  note  which  was  being 
struck.  The  machine  was  racing  to  the  end  of  a  weari- 
some task,  and,  since  already  Violet  Rymer  was  very 

253 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

mucn  to  me,  I  thought  with  a  real  discomfort  of  her 
bending  over  the  keys.  Moreover,  I  seemed  to  be 
stumbling  upon  a  secret  which  I  was  not  meant  to 
know.  Was  this  tack-tack-tack-ing  the  explanation 
of  why  Chailsey  saw  so  little  of  her? 

While  I  was  asking  myself  this  question  a  door  opened 
and  shut  violently.  It  was  the  door  into  that  next 
room,  and  as  it  was  banged  the  typewriting  ceased 
altogether.  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then 
a  voice  was  raised  in  passion.  It  was  Bradley  Rymer's 
voice,  but  I  hardly  recognised  it. 

"What  is  it  now?"  he  cried,  bitterly.  "A  novel, 
a  volume  of  sermons,  a  pamphlet?  Am  I  never  to 
see  you,  Violet?  You  remain  hidden  in  this  room, 
breaking  your  back  for  sixpence  an  hour.  Why,  I 
bought  this  house  for  you.  My  one  aim  was  to  get 
rich  for  you."  And  the  girl  interrupted  him  with  an 
agonised  cry. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  father!" 

"But  I  do  say  it."  And  suddenly  his  voice  softened. 
"It's  true,  Vi.  You  know  it's  true.  The  one  thing 
I  hated  was  that  you  should  lose  all  the  fun  of  your 
youth  at  that  grinding  work.  And  now  you're  still 
at  it.  Why?  Why?" 

And  through  the  door  came  her  voice,  in  a  passion- 
ate, broken  reply: 

"Because — because — I  feel — that  not  even  the 
clothes  I  am  wearing  really  belong  to  me." 

254 


THE    BROWN   BOOK 

The  dispute  suddenly  ceased.  A  third  voice  spoke 
so  low  that  I  could  not  hear  the  words,  but  I  heard 
Bradley  Rymer's  startled  reply: 

"In  the  library?" 

I  had  just  time  to  get  away  into  the  farthest  window 
before  he  entered  the  room.  It  was  almost  dark  now, 
and  he  peered  about  in  search  of  me.  I  moved  from 
the  window  towards  him. 

"Oh,  you  are  there,  Kelsey,"  he  said,  suavely. 
"  We'll  have  a  light.  It's  so  confoundedly  dark  that 
I  can  hardly  see  you." 

He  rang  a  bell  and  a  lamp  was  brought,  which  he 
took  from  the  hands  of  the  servant  and  set  down  on 
the  corner  of  his  writing-table  between  us. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  he  asked,  and — I 
can't  account  for  it — he  stood  facing  me  in  his  dinner- 
jacket,  with  his  usual  pleasant,  friendly  smile;  but  I 
suddenly  became  quite  sure  that  he  was  dangerous. 
Yes,  that's  the  word — dangerous. 

"Just  a  minute  or  so,"  I  answered,  as  indifferently 
as  I  could,  and  then,  with  a  strangely  swift  movement, 
he  crossed  the  room  again  to  the  fireplace  and  rang 
the  bell. 

"Will  you  tell  Miss  Violet  that  Dr.  Kelsey  is  here?" 
he  said  to  the  parlourmaid,  as  soon  as  she  appeared. 
"You  will  find  her  in  the  next  room." 

He  came  softly  back  and  seated  himself  at  the  writ- 
ing-table. 

255 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  see  me?"  he  asked,  in 
a  queer  voice. 

I  spoke  about  the  memorial,  and  he  answered  at 
random.  He  was  listening,  but  he  was  not  listening 
to  me.  In  a  sort  of  abstraction  he  drew  open  a  drawer 
in  his  writing-table  on  a  level  with  his  hand,  and  every 
now  and  then  he  shut  it,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
drew  it  open  again. 

I  cannot  hope  to  make  you  realise  the  uncanny  feel- 
ing of  discomfort  which  crept  over  me.  Most  of  us 
at  this  table,  I  imagine,  have  some  knowledge  of  pho- 
tography and  its  processes.  We  have  placed  a  gas- 
light paper  in  the  developing-dish,  and  seen  the  face 
of  our  portrait  flash  out  in  a  second  on  the  white  sur- 
face. I  can  never  get  accustomed  to  it.  I  can  never 
quite  look  upon  it  as  not  a  miracle.  Well,  just  that 
miracle  seemed  to  me  to  be  happening  now.  Bradley 
Rymer  suddenly  became  visible  to  me,  a  rogue,  a 
murderous  rogue,  and  I  watched  with  an  increasing 
fear  that  drawer  in  his  table.  I  waited  for  his  hand 
to  slip  into  it. 

But  while  I  waited  the  door  of  the  next  room  was 
opened,  and  Rymer  and  I  both  ceased  to  talk.  We 
pretended  no  more.  We  listened,  and,  although  we 
heard  voices,  we  could  not  distinguish  words.  Both  Violet 
and  the  servant  were  speaking  in  their  ordinary  tones, 
and  Rymer  and  I  were  now  on  the  far  side  of  the  room. 
An  expression  of  immense  relief  shone  upon  Bradley 

256 


Rymer's  face  for  a  moment,  and  he  rose  up  with  the 
smile  and  the  friendliness  I  knew. 

"Will  you  stay  to  dinner?"  he  asked.  "Do!" 
But  I  dared  not.  I  should  have  betrayed  the  trouble 
I  was  in.  I  made  a  lame  excuse  and  left  the  house. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  in  the  cool  night  air  I 
began,  before  I  had  reached  the  lodge,  to  wonder 
whether  I  had  not  been  misled  altogether  by  some 
hallucination.  Bradley  Rymer  brought  to  my  memory 
the  tragic  case  of  his  brother,  and  I  asked  myself  for  a 
moment  if  the  long  and  late  hours  of  a  country  practice 
were  unbalancing  me.  But  I  looked  back  towards  the 
house  as  I  took  the  track  over  the  turf,  and  the  scene 
through  which  I  had  passed  returned  too  vividly  to 
leave  me  in  any  doubt.  I  could  see  Bradley  Rymer 
clearly  as  he  opened  and  shut  the  drawer  of  his  writing- 
table.  I  could  hear  his  voice  raised  in  bitter  reproach 
to  Violet  and  the  click  of  the  typewriting  machine. 
No,  I  had  not  been  dreaming. 

I  had  walked  about  a  hundred  yards  down  the  slope 
when  a  sharp  whistle  of  two  notes  sounded  a  little  way 
off  upon  my  right,  and  almost  before  I  had  stopped  a 
man  sprang  from  the  grass  at  my  very  feet  with  a  gut- 
tural cry  like  a  man  awakened  from  a  doze.  Had  I 
taken  another  step  I  should  have  trodden  upon  him. 
The  next  moment  the  light  from  an  electric  torch 
flashed  upon  my  face,  blinding  me.  I  stepped  back 
and  put  up  my  hand  to  my  eyes.  But  even  while  I 

257 


THE    BROWN   BOOK 

raised  my  hand  the  button  of  the  torch  was  released 
and  the  light  went  out.  I  stood  for  a  moment  in  utter 
blackness,  then  dimly  I  became  aware  of  some  one 
moving  away  from  in  front  of  me. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  cried. 

"Nothing,"  was  the  word  spoken  in  answer. 

I  should  have  put  the  fellow  down  for  one  of  the 
gipsies  who  infest  those  Downs  in  the  summer,  and 
thought  no  more  about  him,  but  for  one  reason.  He 
had  spoken  with  a  pronounced  German  accent.  Be- 
sides, there  was  the  warning  whistle,  the  flash  of  the 
torch.  I  could  not  resist  the  conviction  that  Brad- 
ley Rymer's  house  was  being  watched. 

I  walked  on  without  quickening  my  pace,  for  per- 
haps a  hundred  yards.  Then  I  ran,  and  as  fast  as  I 
could,  down  to  the  village.  I  did  not  stop  to  reason 
things  out.  I  was  in  a  panic.  Violet  was  in  that 
house,  and  it  was  being  watched  by  strangers.  We 
had  one  policeman  in  the  village,  and  he  not  the  brain- 
iest of  men.  I  got  out  my  bicycle  and  rode  fourteen 
miles,  walking  up  the  hills  and  coasting  down  them 
until  I  reached  the  town  of  Reading.  I  rode  to  the 
house  of  the  Chief  Constable,  whom  I  happened  to 
know. 

"Is  Captain  Bowyer  in?"  I  asked  of  the  servant. 

"No,  sir;  he's  dining  out  to-night." 

"In  the  town?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

258 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

I  was  white  with  dust  and  wet  through  with  sweat. 
The  girl  looked  me  over  and  said: 

"I  have  orders  to  telephone  for  him  if  he  is  wanted." 

"He  is,"  I  replied,  and  she  went  off  to  the  telephone 
at  once. 

I  began  to  cool  down  in  more  ways  than  one  while  I 
waited.  It  seemed  to  me  very  likely  that  I  had  come 
upon  a  fool's  errand.  After  all,  what  had  I  got  to  go 
upon  but  a  German  accent,  a  low,  sharp  whistle,  and 
an  electric  torch?  I  waited  about  half  an  hour  before 
Bowyer  came  in.  He  was  a  big  man,  with  a  strong  face 
and  a  fair  moustache,  capable,  but  not  imaginative; 
and  I  began  my  story  with  a  good  deal  of  diffidence. 
But  I  had  not  got  far  before  his  face  became  serious, 
though  he  said  not  a  word  until  I  had  done. 

"Bradley  Rymer's  house,"  he  then  remarked.  "I 
know  it."  He  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  I  heard 
his  voice  at  the  telephone.  He  came  back  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"I  have  sent  for  some  men,"  he  said,  "and  a  car. 
Will  you  wait  here  while  I  change?" 

"Yes." 

I  glanced  at  the  clock.  For  now  that  he  took  the 
affair  seriously  all  my  fears  had  returned. 

"What  time  did  you  leave  the  house?"  he  asked. 

"Nine." 

"And  it's  now  eleven.  Yes,  we  must  hurry.  Brad- 
ley Rymer's  house !  So  that's  where  they  are." 

259 


He  hurried  away.  But  before  he  had  changed  his 
clothes  a  great  touring  motor-car  whirred  and  stopped 
in  front  of  the  door.  When  we  went  out  on  to  the 
steps  of  the  house  there  were  four  constables  wait- 
ing. We  climbed  into  the  car,  and  the  hilly  road  to 
Streatley,  which  had  taken  me  so  long  and  painful 
a  tune  to  traverse,  now  rose  and  fell  beneath  the 
broad  wheels  like  the  waves  of  a  sea.  At  Streatley 
we  turned  uphill  along  the  Aldworth  Road,  and  felt 
the  fresh  wind  of  the  downland  upon  our  faces.  Then 
for  the  first  tune  upon  the  journey  I  spoke. 

"You  know  these  men  ?"  I  asked  of  Captain  Bowyer. 

"I  know  of  them,"  he  answered,  and  he  bent  for- 
wards to  me.  "With  all  these  kings  and  emperors 
in  London  for  the  funeral,  of  course  a  great  many  pre- 
cautions were  taken  on  the  Continent.  All  the  known 
Anarchists  were  marked  down;  most  of  them  on  some 
excuse  or  another  were  arrested.  But  three  slipped 
through  the  net  and  reached  England." 

"But  they  would  be  in  London,"  I  urged. 

"So  you  would  think.  We  were  warned  to-day, 
however,  that  they  had  been  traced  into  Berkshire 
and  there  lost  sight  of." 

A  hundred  questions  rose  to  my  lips,  but  I  did  not 
put  them.  We  were  all  in  the  dark  together. 

"That's  the  house,"  I  said  at  length,  and  Captain 
Bowyer  touched  the  chauffeur  on  the  shoulder. 

"We'll  stop,  then,  by  the  road." 
260 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

Very  quietly  we  got  out  of  the  car  and  crept  up  the 
hill.  The  night  was  dark;  only  here  and  there  in  a 
chink  of  the  clouds  a  star  shone  feebly.  Down  in  the 
village  a  dog  barked  and  the  wind  whistled  amongst 
the  grasses  under  our  feet.  We  met  no  one.  The 
lodge  at  the  gates  was  dark;  we  could  not  see  the  house 
itself,  but  a  glare  striking  upon  the  higher  branches  of 
the  trees  in  the  garden  showed  that  a  room  was  brightly 
lit. 

"Do  you  know  which  room  that  is?"  Bowyer  asked 
of  me  in  a  whisper. 

"The  library." 

We  spread  out  then  and  made  a  circuit  of  the  gar- 
den wall.  There  was  no  one  any  longer  watching,  and 
we  heard  no  whistle. 

"They  have  gone,"  I  said  to  Bowyer. 

"Or  they  are  inside,"  he  replied,  and  as  he  spoke 
we  heard  feet  brushing  upon  the  grass  and  a  con- 
stable loomed  up  in  front  of  us. 

"This  way,  sir,"  he  whispered.  "They  are  in- 
side." 

We  followed  him  round  to  the  back  of  the  garden. 
Just  about  the  middle  of  that  back  wall  the  men  stood 
in  a  cluster.  We  joined  them,  and  saw  that  an  up- 
right ladder  rose  to  the  parapet.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  wall  a  thick  coppice  of  trees  grew,  dark  and  high. 
Without  a  word,  one  after  another  we  mounted  the 
ladder  and  let  ourselves  down  by  the  trees  into  the 

261 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

garden.  A  few  paces  took  us  to  the  edge  of  the  cop- 
pice, and  the  house  stood  in  the  open  before  us.  Stand- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  the  branches,  we  looked  up.  The 
house  was  in  complete  darkness  but  for  the  long  row 
of  library  windows  upon  the  first  floor.  In  these, 
however,  the  curtains  were  not  drawn,  and  the  light 
blazed  out  upon  the  green  foliage.  There  was  no 
sound,  no  sign  of  any  disorder.  Once  more  I  began 
to  think  that  I  had  brought  Bowyer  and  his  men  here 
upon  a  fool's  errand.  I  said  as  much  to  him  in  a 
whisper. 

"But  the  ladder?"  he  answered,  "my  men  found  it 
there."  And  even  while  he  spoke  there  appeared  at 
one  of  these  windows  a  stranger.  It  was  as  much  as 
I  could  do  in  that  awful  moment  to  withhold  a  cry. 
I  gripped  Bowyer's  arm  with  so  much  violence  that  he 
could  show  me  the  bruises  of  my  fingers  a  week  after- 
wards. But  he  stood  like  a  rock  now. 

"IsthatRymer?" 

"No.    I  have  never  seen  him  hi  my  life  before." 

He  was  a  dark  man,  and  his  hair  and  moustache 
were  turning  grey.  He  had  the  look  of  a  foreigner, 
and  he  lounged  at  the  window  with  as  much  assurance 
as  if  he  owned  the  place.  Then  he  turned  his  face 
towards  the  room  with  a  smile,  and,  as  if  in  obedience 
to  an  order,  carelessly  drew  down  the  blinds. 

They  were  in  the  house,  then — these  men  who  had 
slipped  through  the  net  of  the  Continental  police; 

262 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

more,  they  were  masters  in  the  house;  and  there  was 
no  sound.  They  were  in  peaceful  possession.  My 
heart  sank  within  me  when  I  thought  of  Violet  Rymer 
and  her  father.  What  had  become  of  them?  In 
what  plight  were  they  ? 

Bowyer  made  a  sign,  and,  stepping  carefully  on  the 
turf  border  and  keeping  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
we  crept  round  to  the  back  of  the  house.  One  of  the 
party  ran  swiftly  and  silently  across  a  gravel  path  to 
the  house-wall  and  followed  it  for  a  little  way.  Then 
as  swiftly  he  came  back. 

"Yes,  there's  a  window  open,"  he  said.  We  crossed 
to  it.  It  yawned  upon  black  emptiness.  We  lis- 
tened; not  a  sound  reached  us. 

"What  does  it  give  on  to?"  asked  Bowyer. 

"A  passage.  At  the  end  of  the  passage  there's  a 
swing  door.  Beyond  the  swing  door  the  hall." 

We  climbed  in  through  the  window. 

"There  should  be  a  mastiff  in  the  hall,"  I  said. 

"Oh ! "  and  Bowyer  came  to  a  stop.  " Do  you  think 
Rymer  expected  these  men?"  he  asked.  I  had  be- 
gun to  ask  myself  that  question  already.  It  was 
clear  the  dog  had  not  given  any  alarm.  But  we 
found  out  the  reason  when  we  crept  into  the  hall. 
He  was  lying  dead  upon  the  stone  floor,  with  a  piece 
of  meat  at  his  side. 

"Quick!"  whispered  Bowyer,  and  I  led  the  way  up 
the  great  staircase.  At  the  head  of  it  at  last  we  heard 

263 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

voices,  and  stopped,  holding  our  breath.  A  few  words 
spoken  in  a  foreign  accent  detached  themselves  from 
the  general  murmur. 

"Where  is  it?  You  won't  say!  Very  well,  then !" 
A  muffled  groan  followed  the  words,  and  once  more 
the  voice  spoke.  "Wait,  Adolf!  He  gives  in.  We 
shall  know  now,"  and  as  the  voice  continued,  some 
one,  it  was  clear,  between  each  question  asked,  an- 
swered with  a  sign,  a  shake  of  the  head,  or  a  nod. 
"It  is  in  the  bookcase?  Yes.  Behind  the  books? 
Good.  There?  No.  To  the  right?  Yes.  Higher? 
Yes.  On  that  shelf?  Good.  Search  well,  Adolf!" 
And  with  that  Bowyer  burst  into  the  room  with  his 
men  behind  him.  He  held  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 

"I  shall  shoot  the  first  man  who  moves,"  he  said; 
and  no  one  did  move.  They  stood  like  wax  figures 
moulded  in  an  attitude  for  ever.  Imagine,  if  you  can, 
the  scene  which  confronted  me!  On  the  library 
ladder,  with  a  hand  thrust  behind  the  books  on  one 
of  the  highest  shelves,  was  mounted  one  of  the  three 
foreigners.  A  second — he  whom  we  had  seen  at  the 
window — stood  over  a  chair  into  which  Bradley  Rymer 
was  strapped  with  a  gag  over  his  mouth.  The  third 
supported  Violet.  She  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  with  her  hands  tied  behind  her  and  a 
rope  in  a  noose  about  her  neck.  The  end  of  the  rope 
had  been  passed  through  a  big  ring  in  the  ceiling 
which  had  once  carried  a  lamp.  I  sprang  towards  her, 

264 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

cast  off  the  noose,  and  she  fainted  there  and  then  in 
my  arms. 

At  the  back  of  the  bookshelf  we  found  a  slim  little 
book  of  brown  morocco  with  a  broken  lock. 


At  this  point  in  Sir  James  Kelsey's  story  Dr.  Mur- 
gatroyd  leaned  forward  and  interrupted. 

"John  Rymer's  private  case-book,"  he  said. 

"Exactly,"  replied  Kelsey,  "and  also  Bradley 
Rymer's  boom  in  Canadian  land." 

There  was  a  quick  stir  about  that  table,  and  then  a 
moment  of  uncomfortable  silence.  At  last  one  spoke 
the  thought  in  the  minds  of  all. 

"Blackmail!" 

"Yes." 

There  was  hardly  a  man  in  the  room  who  had  not 
some  record  of  a  case  locked  away  in  a  private  drawer 
which  was  worth  a  fortune  of  gold,  and  each  one  be- 
gan to  think  of  the  security  of  his  locks. 

"But  where  do  your  foreign  revolutionaries  come 
in?"  asked  Murgatroyd,  and  Kelsey  took  up  his  tale 
again. 

"Bowyer  and  I  went  through  that  brown  book  to- 
gether in  my  house,  after  the  prisoners  had  been  sent 
off.  For  a  long  time  we  could  find  no  explanation. 
But  right  at  the  end  of  the  book  there  was  a  case  which 
puzzled  me.  A  Mr.  Johnson  had  entered  Rymer's 
nursing-home  on  June  17th  of  the  year  before  at  five 

265 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  strange  time  to  arrive.  But 
there  it  was,  noted  down  with  every  other  particular  of 
his  case.  Three  days  later  Mr.  Johnson  was  operated 
on  for  cancer  of  the  throat.  The  operation  was  re- 
markably successful,  and  the  patient  left  the  home 
cured  seven  weeks  later.  I  think  it  was  the  unusual 
time  of  Mr.  Johnson's  arrival  which  first  directed  my 
suspicions;  and  the  more  I  thought  of  them  the  more 
credible  they  became.  I  had  lighted  a  fire  in  the 
sitting-room,  for  the  morning  had  come,  and  it  was 
chilly.  I  said  to  Bowyer: 

"'Just  wait  a  moment  here.  I  keep  a  file  of  The 
Times,'  and  I  went  upstairs,  blessing  the  methodical 
instinct  which  had  made  me  for  so  long  keep  in  due 
order  this  record  of  events.  I  brought  down  the  file 
of  June  of  the  year  before,  and,  turning  over  the  pages, 
I  found  under  the  date  of  June  14th  the  official  para- 
graph of  which  I  was  in  search.  I  put  it  under  Bow- 
yer's  eyes.  He  read  it  through  and  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  a  cry.  The  paragraph  ran  like  this.  I  can  re- 
member every  word  of  it.  I  am  inventing  a  name 
for  the  country,  that's  all,  instead  of  giving  you  the 
real  one: 

"'The  Crown  Prince  of  Galicia  left  the  capital  yes- 
terday for  his  annual  visit  to  his  shooting-box  in  the 
Tyrol,  where  he  will  remain  for  two  months.  This 
news  effectually  dispels  the  rumours  that  His  Royal 
Highness's  recent  indisposition  was  due  to  a  malignant 
growth  in  the  throat.' 

266 


THE  BROWN  BOOK 

"Underneath  this  paragraph  there  was  an  editorial 
note: 

"'The  importance  of  this  news  cannot  be  over- 
rated. For  by  the  constitution  of  Galicia  no  one  suf- 
fering from  or  tainted  by  any  malignant  disease  can 
ascend  the  throne/ 

"  Identify  now  Rymer's  Mr.  Johnson  with  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Galicia,  and  not  only  Bradley  Rymer's  for- 
tune but  the  attack  upon  his  house  by  the  revolution- 
aries was  explained,  for  whether  they  meant  to  use 
the  Brown  Book  for  blackmail  as  Bradley  Rymer  had 
done,  or  to  upset  a  monarchy,  it  would  be  of  an  in- 
estimable value  to  them. 

"'What  are  we  to  do?'  asked  Bowyer. 

"What  John  Rymer's  executors  would  have  done 
if  the  book  had  not  been  stolen,'  I  answered,  balanc- 
ing it  above  the  fire. 

"He  hesitated.  The  official  mind  said  'No.'  Then 
he  realised  the  stupendous  character  of  the  secret. 
He  burst  through  forms  and  rules. 

"'Yes,  by  Heaven,'  he  cried,  'destroy  it!'  And  we 
sat  there  till  the  last  sheet  blackened  and  curled  up 
in  the  flames. 

"I  had  not  a  doubt  as  to  what  had  happened.  I 
took  the  half-truth  which  the  public  knew  and  it  fitted 
like  a  piece  of  a  Chinese  puzzle  with  our  discovery. 
John  Rymer,  assailed  with  a  causeless  fear  of  penury, 
had  consented  for  a  huge  fee  to  take  the  Crown  Prince 
into  his  home  under  the  false  name.  Bradley  Rymer 

267 


THE   BROWN   BOOK 

had  got  wind  of  the  operation,  had  stolen  the  record 
of  the  case,  and  had  the  Galician  Crown  and  Govern- 
ment at  his  mercy.  John  Rymer's  suicide  followed 
logically.  Accused  of  bad  faith,  and  already  un- 
balanced, aware  that  a  deadly  secret  which  he  should 
have  guarded  with  his  life  had  escaped,  he  had  put 
the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  into  his  mouth  and  blown  his 
brains  out." 

"What  became  of  the  foreigners?"  asked  one  of  the 
guests,  as  Kelsey  finished. 

"They  were  kept  under  lock  and  key  until  the  fu- 
neral was  over.  Then  they  were  sent  out  of  the  coun- 
try." 

Kelsey  rose  from  his  chair.  The  hands  of  the  clock 
pointed  to  eleven.  But  before  anyone  else  got  up  Dr. 
Murgatroyd  asked  a  final  question: 

"And  what  of  Mr.  Johnson?" 

Kelsey  laughed. 

"I  told  you  Rymer  was  a  great  surgeon.  Mr. 
Johnson  has  been  King  of  Galicia,  as  we  are  calling  it, 
for  the  past  ten  years." 


268 


THE  REFUGE 


THE  REFUGE 

The  basket  of  petite  fours  had  been  removed;  cigars 
and  cigarettes  had  been  passed  round;  one  or  two  of 
the  half-dozen  people  gathered  about  the  small  round 
table,  rashly  careless  of  a  sleepless  night,  were  drink- 
ing coffee  with  their  liqueurs;  the  conversation  was 
sprightly,  at  all  events,  if  it  was  not  witty,  and  laughter 
ran  easily  in  ripples;  the  little  supper-party,  in  a  word, 
was  at  its  gayest  when  Harry  Caston  suddenly  pushed 
back  his  chair.  Though  the  movement  was  abrupt, 
it  was  not  conspicuous;  it  did  not  interrupt  the  light 
interchange  of  chaff  and  pleasantries  for  a  moment.  It 
was  probably  not  noticed,  and  certainly  not  understood 
by  more  than  one  in  that  small  company.  The  one, 
however,  was  a  woman  to  whom  Harry  Caston's 
movements  were  a  matter  of  much  greater  interest 
than  he  knew.  Mrs.  Wordingham  was  sitting  next  to 
him,  and  she  remarked  quietly: 

"So  you  are  not  going  on  to  the  Mirlitons'  dance, 
after  all?" 

Harry  Caston  turned  to  her  in  surprise. 

"You're  a  witch,"  he  replied.  "I  have  only  just 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  home  instead." 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Wordingham. 
271 


THE  REFUGE 

"Then  you  oughtn't  to,"  retorted  Harry  Caston 
carelessly.  Mrs.  Wordlngham  flushed. 

"I  wish  I  didn't,"  she  answered  in  a  low,  submissive 
voice.  She  was  not  naturally  a  submissive  woman, 
and  it  was  only  in  his  ears  that  this  particular  note 
was  sounded. 

"I  meant  that  you  had  no  right  to  be  able  to  esti- 
mate so  accurately  the  hidden  feelings  of  your  brother- 
man,"  he  answered  awkwardly,  and  wrapping  up  his 
awkwardness  in  an  elaboration  of  words. 

Harry  Caston  looked  about  the  supper-room,  with 
its  walls  of  white  and  gold,  its  clusters  of  bright  faces, 
its  flash  of  silver,  its  running  noise  of  merriment.  His 
fingers  twitched  restlessly. 

"Yes,  I  am  going,"  he  said.  "I  shall  leave  Lon- 
don to-morrow.  I  have  a  house." 

"I  know  that  too— in  the  Isle  of  Wight." 

"Not  so  very  far,  after  all,  is  it?"  he  said. 

"As  far  as  Timbuctoo  when  you  are  there,"  replied 
Mrs.  Wordingham.  Her  great  dark  eyes  rested  wist- 
fully upon  his  face;  she  leaned  the  least  little  bit 
towards  him.  Harry  Caston  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  turned  to  her  with  a  smile  of  apology. 

"You  know  me " 

"Oh,  don't  I!"  she  cried  in  a  low  voice.  "We 
shall  see  you  no  more  for — how  many  months?" 

Harry  Caston  did  not  answer.  His  memories  were 
busy  with  an  afternoon  of  early  summer  in  that  same 

272 


THE  REFUGE 

year,  when,  as  his  motor-car  slid  down  a  long  straight 
slope  into  a  village  of  red-brick  cottages,  he  had  seen, 
on  the  opposite  incline,  a  row  of  tall  stone-pines,  and 
glowing  beneath  their  shade  the  warm  brown  roof  of 
a  small  and  ancient  house. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wordingham,  once 
more  interpreting  his  silence. 

"There  was  a  bridge  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill — a 
bridge  across  the  neck  of  a  creek,  with  an  old  flour 
mill  and  a  tiny  roof  at  one  side  of  it.  Inland  of  the 
bridge  was  a  reach  of  quiet  water  running  back  towards 
the  downs  through  woods  and  meadows.  Already  I 
seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the  crest  of  the  hill  into 
another  century.  Beyond  the  bridge  the  road  curved 
upwards.  I  went  up  on  my  second  speed  between  the 
hedge  of  a  field  which  sloped  down  to  the  creek  upon 
the  one  side,  and  a  low  brick  wall  topped  by  a  bank 
of  grass  upon  the  other.  The  incline  of  the  hill  brought 
my  head  suddenly  above  the  bank,  and  I  looked  straight 
across  a  smooth  lawn  broken  by  great  trees  on  to  the 
front  of  a  house.  And  I  stopped  my  car,  believe  me, 
almost  with  a  gasp.  There  was  no  fence  or  hedge  to 
impede  my  view.  I  had  come  at  last  across  the  per- 
fect house,  and  I  sat  in  the  car  and  stared  and  stared 
at  it,  not  at  first  with  any  conscious  desire  to  possess 
it,  but  simply  taken  by  the  sheer  beauty  of  the  thing, 
just  as  one  may  gaze  at  a  jewel." 

The  lights  went  suddenly  out  in  the  supper-room, 
273 


THE  REFUGE 

as  a  gentle  warning  that  time  was  up,  and  then  were 
raised  again.  Harry  Caston,  however,  seemed  un- 
aware of  any  change.  He  was  at  the  moment  neither 
of  that  party  nor  of  that  room. 

"It  was  a  small  house  of  the  E  shape,  raised  upon  a 
low  parapet  and  clothed  in  ivy.  The  middle  part,  set 
back  a  few  feet  behind  flowers,  had  big  flat  windows; 
the  gabled  ends  had  smaller  ones  and  more  of  them. 
Oh,  I  can't  describe  to  you  what  I  saw!  The  house 
in  detail?  Yes.  But  that  would  not  give  you  an 
idea  of  it.  The  woodwork  of  the  windows  was  painted 
white,  and,  where  they  stood  open  to  the  sunlight  and 
the  air,  they  showed  you  deep  embrasures  of  black  oak 
within." 

He  stumbled  on  awkwardly,  impelled  to  describe 
the  house,  yet  aware  that  his  description  left  all  unsaid. 
The  tiles  of  the  roof  were  mellowed  by  centuries,  so 
that  shade  ran  into  shade;  and  here  they  were  almost 
purple,  and  there  brown  with  a  glint  of  gold.  Two 
great  chimney  stacks  stood  high,  not  rising  from  the 
roof,  but  from  the  sides  of  the  house,  flanking  it  like 
sentinels,  and  over  these,  too,  the  ivy  climbed. 

But  what  had  taken  Caston  by  the  throat  was  the 
glamour  of  repose  on  that  old  house.  Birds  flickered 
about  the  lawn,  and  though  the  windows  stood  open, 
and  the  grass  was  emerald  green  and  smooth,  no  smoke 
rose  from  any  of  the  chimney-tops. 

"I  ran  on  for  a  few  yards,"  he  went  on,  "until  I 
274 


THE  REFUGE 

saw  a  road  which  branched  off  to  the  right.  I  drove 
up  it,  and  came  to  a  gate  with  a  notice  that  the  house 
was  to  be  sold.  I  went  in,  and  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  in  a  second  queer  little  grass  garden,  screened 
by  big  trees  upon  three  sides  and  a  low  red-brick  wall 
upon  the  fourth,  over  which  you  could  see  the  upper 
reach  of  the  estuary  and  the  woods  on  the  further  hill, 
I  found  a  garrulous  old  gardener." 

Mrs.  Wordingham  leaned  forward. 

"And  what  story  had  he  to  tell?'* 

"Oh,  none!"  answered  Caston  with  a  laugh. 
"There's  no  tragic  or  romantic  history  connected  with 
the  house.  Of  course,  it's  haunted — that  goes  with- 
out saying.  There's  hardly  a  bedroom  window  where 
the  ivy  does  not  tap  upon  the  panes.  But  for  history ! 
Four  old  ladies  took  it  for  a  summer,  and  remained  in 
it  for  forty  years.  The  last  one  of  them  died  two 
years  ago.  That's  all  the  history  the  gardener  knew. 
But  he  showed  me  over  the  house,  the  quaintest  place 
you  ever  dreamed  of — a  small  stone-flagged  hall, 
Kttle  staircases  rising  straight  and  enclosed  hi  the 
walls,  great  polished  oak  beams,  rooms  larger  than 
you  would  expect,  and  a  great  one  on  the  first  floor, 
occupying  the  middle  of  the  house  and  looking  out  upon 
the  grass  garden  at  the  back,  and  over  the  sunk  road 
to  the  creek  in  front.  Anyway" — and  he  broke  off 
abruptly — "I  bought  the  house,  and  I've  furnished  it, 

and  now " 

275 


THE  REFUGE 

"Now  you  are  going  to  shut  yourself  up  in  it," 
said  Mrs.  Wordingham. 

The  lights  were  turned  out  now  for  the  last  time. 
The  party  sat  almost  in  darkness.  Caston  turned 
towards  his  companion.  He  could  just  see  the  soft 
gleam  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"For  a  little,"  he  replied.  "I  have  to,  you  know. 
I  can't  help  it.  I  enjoy  all  this.  I  like  running  about 
London  as  much  as  any  man;  I — I  am  fond  of  my 
friends."  The  lady  smiled  with  a  little  bitterness,  and 
Caston  went  on:  " But  the  time  comes  when  everything 
suddenly  jars  on  me — noise,  company,  everything — 
when  I  must  get  away  with  my  books  into  some 
refuge  of  my  own,  when  I  must  take  my  bath  of  soli- 
tude without  anyone  having  a  lien  upon  a  single  min- 
ute of  my  tune.  The  need  has  come  on  me  to-night. 
The  house  is  ready — waiting.  I  shall  go  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Wordingham  glanced  at  him  with  a  quick 
anxiety.  There  was  a  trifle  of  exasperation  in  his 
voice.  He  was  suddenly  on  wires. 

"Yes,  you  look  tired,"  she  said.  The  head  waiter 
approached  the  table,  and  the  party  broke  up  and 
mounted  the  steps  into  the  hall.  Caston  handed  Mrs. 
Wordingham  into  her  carriage. 

"I  shall  see  you  when  I  come  back?'*  said  he,  and 
Mrs.  Wordingham  answered  with  a  well-assumed 
carelessness: 

"  I  shall  be  in  London  in  the  autumn.  Perhaps  you 
276 


THE  REFUGE 

will  have  some  story  to  tell  me  of  your  old  house. 
Has  it  a  name  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes— Hawk  Hill,"  replied  Caston.  "But 
there's  no  story  about  that  house,"  he  repeated,  and 
the  carriage  rolled  away.  Later  on,  however,  he  was 
inclined  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  his  statement,  con- 
fidently though  he  had  made  it.  And  a  little  later  still 
be  became  again  aware  of  its  truth. 

Here,  at  all  events,  is  what  occurred.  Harry  Cas- 
ton idled  through  his  mornings  over  his  books,  sailed 
his  sloop  down  the  creek  and  out  past  the  black  booms 
into  the  Solent  in  the  afternoon,  and  came  back  to  a 
solitary  dinner  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Thus  he 
passed  a  month.  He  was  not  at  all  tired  with  his  own 
company.  The  inevitable  demand  for  comrades  and 
a  trifle  of  gaiety  had  not  yet  been  whispered  to  his 
soul.  The  fret  of  his  nerves  ceased;  London  sank 
away  into  the  mists.  Even  the  noise  of  the  motor- 
horns  in  the  hidden  road  beneath  his  lawn  merely  re- 
minded him  pleasantly  that  he  was  free  of  that  whirl- 
pool and  of  all  who  whirled  in  it.  If  he  needed  con- 
versation, there  were  the  boatmen  on  the  creek,  with 
their  interest  in  tides  and  shoals,  or  the  homely  politics 
of  the  village.  But  Caston  needed  very  little.  He 
drifted  back,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  into  the  reposeful, 
lavender-scented  life  of  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 
For  though  the  house  was  of  the  true  E  shape,  and  had 
its  origin  in  Tudor  tunes,  it  was  with  that  later  period 

277 


THE  REFUGE 

that  Caston  linked  it  in  his  thoughts.  Tudor  times 
were  stirring,  and  the  recollection  of  them  uncon- 
genial to  Caston's  mood. 

He  had  furnished  the  house  to  suit  his  mood,  and 
the  room  which  he  chiefly  favoured — a  room  at  the 
back,  with  a  great  bay  window  thrown  out  upon  the 
grass,  and  the  floor  just  a  step  below  the  level  of  the 
garden — had  the  very  look  of  some  old  parlour  where 
Mr.  Hardcastle  might  have  sipped  his  port,  and  Kate 
stitched  at  her  samplers.  Here  he  was  sitting  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  about  a  month  after  he  had 
left  London,  when  the  first  of  the  incidents  occurred. 
It  was  nothing  very  startling  in  itself — merely  the 
sound  of  some  small  thing  falling  upon  the  boards  of 
the  floor  and  rolling  into  a  corner — a  crisp,  sharp  sound, 
as  though  a  pebble  had  dropped. 

Caston  looked  up  from  his  book,  at  the  first  hardly 
curious.  But  in  a  minute  or  so,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  alone,  and  that  he  had  dropped  nothing.  More- 
over, the  sound  had  travelled  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  He  was  not  as  yet  curious  enough  to  rise 
from  his  chair,  and  a  round  satin-wood  table  impeded 
his  view.  But  he  looked  about  the  room,  and  could 
see  nothing  from  which  an  ornament  could  have 
dropped.  He  turned  back  to  his  book,  but  his  atten- 
tion wandered.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  sharply  up, 
as  though  he  expected  to  find  another  occupant  in 
the  room.  Finally  he  rose,  and  walking  round  the 

278 


THE  REFUGE 

table,  he  saw  what  seemed  to  be  a  big  glass  bead 
sparkling  in  the  lamplight  on  the  dark-stained  boards 
in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  picked  the  object  up, 
and  found  it  to  be  not  a  large  bead,  but  a  small  knob 
or  handle  of  cut-glass.  He  knew  now  whence  it  had 
come. 

Against  the  wall  stood  a  small  Louis  Seize  table  in 
white  and  gold,  which  he  remembered  to  have  picked 
up  at  a  sale,  with  some  other  furniture,  at  some  old 
mansion,  across  the  water,  in  the  New  Forest.  He  had 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  table,  had  never 
even  troubled  to  look  inside  of  it.  It  had  the  appear- 
ance of  being  a  lady's  secretaire  or  something  of  the 
kind.  But  there  were  three  shallow  drawers,  one 
above  the  other,  in  the  middle  part  of  it — it  was  what  is 
inelegantly  called  a  kidney  table — and  these  drawers 
were  fitted  with  small  glass  knobs  such  as  that  which  he 
held  in  his  hand. 

Caston  went  over  to  the  table,  and  saw  that  one  of 
the  knobs  was  missing.  He  stooped  to  replace  it, 
and  at  once  stood  erect  again,  with  the  knob  in  his 
hand  and  a  puzzled  expression  upon  his  face.  He  had 
expected  that  the  handles  would  fit  on  to  projecting 
screws.  But  he  found  that  they  were  set  into  brass 
rings,  and  firmly  set.  This  one  which  he  held  seemed 
to  have  been  wrenched  out  of  its  setting  by  some 
violent  jerk.  He  tried  the  drawers,  but  they  were 
locked.  There  were  some  papers  and  books  spread 

279 


THE  REFUGE 

upon  the  top.  He  removed  them,  and  found  upon  the 
white  polish  a  half-erased  crest.  It  was  plain  that  the 
middle  part  of  the  top  was  a  lid  and  lifted  up,  but  it 
was  now  locked  down.  Caston  did  not  replace  the 
books  and  papers.  He  returned  to  his  chair.  The 
servants  probably  had  been  curious.  No  doubt  they 
had  tried  to  open  the  drawers,  and  in  the  attempt  had 
loosened  one  of  the  handles. 

Caston  was  content  with  the  explanation — for  that 
night.  But  the  next  evening,  at  the  same  hour,  the 
legs  of  the  table  rattled  on  the  wooden  floor.  He 
sprang  up  from  his  seat.  The  table  was  shaking.  He 
stepped  quickly  across  to  it,  and  then  stopped  with 
his  heart  leaping  in  his  breast.  The  books  and  papers 
had  not  been  replaced,  and  he  had  seen — it  might  be 
that  his  eyes  had  played  him  a  trick,  but  he  had  seen — 
a  small  slim  hand  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  lid 
of  the  table.  The  hand  had  been  lying  flat  upon  its 
palm — Caston  had  just  tune  enough  to  see  that — 
and  it  was  the  left  hand. 

"That's  exactly  the  position,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"in  which  one  would  place  the  left  hand  to  hold  the 
table  steady  while  one  tried  to  force  the  drawers 
open  with  one's  right." 

He  stood  without  a  movement,  but  the  hand  did  not 
appear  again;  and  then  he  found  himself  saying  in  a 
quiet  voice  of  reassurance: 

" Can  I  help  at  all?" 

280 


THE  REFUGE 

The  sound  of  his  own  words  stirred  him  abruptly  to 
laughter.  Common  sense  reasserted  itself;  his  eyes 
had  played  him  a  trick.  Too  much  tobacco,  very 
likely,  was  the  cause  and  origin  of  his  romantic  vision. 
But,  none  the  less,  he  remained  standing  quite  still, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  table's  polished  lid,  for 
some  minutes;  and  when  he  went  back  at  last  to  his 
chair,  from  time  to  time  he  glanced  abruptly  from 
his  book,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  once  more  de- 
tect the  hand  upon  the  table.  But  he  was  disap- 
pointed. 

The  next  morning  he  saw  the  old  gardener  sweep- 
ing the  leaves  from  the  front  lawn,  and  he  at  once  and 
rather  eagerly  went  out  to  him. 

"I  think  you  told  me,  Hayes,  that  this  house  is  sup- 
posed to  be  haunted,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  at  the  sup- 
position. 

The  gardener  took  off  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head 
reflectively. 

"Well,  they  do  say,  sir,  as  it  is.  But  I've  never 
seen  anything  myself,  nor  can  I  rightly  say  that  I've 
ever  come  across  anyone  who  has.  A  pack  o*  non- 
sense, I  call  it." 

"Very  likely,  Hayes,"  said  Caston.  "And  what 
sort  of  a  person  is  it  who's  supposed  to  walk?" 

"An  old  man  in  grey  stockings,"  replied  the  gardener. 
"That's  what  I've  heard.  But  what  he's  supposed  to 
be  doing  I  don't  know,  sir,  any  more  than  I  know  why 

281 


THE  REFUGE 

there  should  be  so  much  fuss  about  his  wearing  grey 
stockings.  Live  men  do  that,  after  all." 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  Caston.  "You  may  count 
them  by  dozens  on  bicycles  if  you  stand  for  an  hour  or 
two  above  the  road  here."  And  he  went  back  to  the 
house.  It  was  quite  clear  that  his  visitant  of  last 
night,  if  there  had  been  one,  was  not  the  native  spectre 
of  this  small  old  manor-house. 

"The  slim  white  hand  I  saw,"  Caston  argued,  "be- 
longed to  no  old  man  in  grey  stockings  or  out  of  them. 
It  was  the  hand  of  a  quite  young  woman.  But  if  she 
doesn't  belong  to  the  house,  if  she  isn't  one  of  the 
fixtures  to  be  taken  on  by  the  incoming  tenant — if,  in 
a  word,  she's  a  trespasser — how  in  the  world  did  she 
find  her  way  here?" 

Caston  suddenly  saw  an  answer  to  the  question — a 
queer  and  a  rather  attractive  answer,  especially  to  a 
man  who  had  fed  for  a  month  on  solitude  and  had 
grown  liable  to  fancies.  He  had  all  through  this 
lonely  month  been  gradually  washing  from  his  body 
and  his  mind  the  dust  of  his  own  times.  He  had 
sought  to  reproduce  the  quiet  of  an  older  age,  and 
in  the  seeking  had  perhaps  done  more  than  reproduce. 
That  was  his  thought.  He  had,  perhaps,  by  ever  so 
little,  penetrated  the  dark  veil  which  hides  from  men 
all  days  but  their  own — just  enough,  say,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  hand.  He  himself  was  becoming  more 
and  more  harmonious  with  his  house;  the  cries  of  the 

282 


THE  REFUGE 

outer  world  hardly  reached  his  ears  in  that  little  par- 
lour which  opened  on  to  the  hidden  garden.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  other  times,  through  some  thinning  out 
of  the  thick  curtain  of  his  senses,  were  becoming  actual 
and  real  just  to  him. 

"The  first  month  passed,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
was  undisturbed;  no  sign  was  made.  I  was  still  too 
near  to  what  I  had  left  behind — London  and  the  rest  of 
it.  But  now  I  pass  more  and  more  over  the  threshold 
into  that  other  century.  First  of  all,  I  was  only  aware 
of  a  movement,  a  presence;  then  I  was  able  to  see — 
nothing  much,  it  is  true — only  a  small  hand.  But  to- 
night I  may  see  her  to  whom  the  hand  belongs.  In  a 
week  I  may  be  admitted  into  her  company." 

Thus  he  argued,  pretending  to  himself  the  while 
that  he  was  merely  playing  with  his  fancy,  pursuing 
it  like  a  ball  in  a  game,  and  ready  to  let  it  fall  and  lie 
the  moment  that  he  was  tired.  But  the  sudden  hum 
of  a  motor-car  upon  his  drive,  and  a  joyous  outcry  of 
voices,  soon  dispelled  the  pretence.  A  party  of  his 
friends  invaded  him,  clamouring  for  luncheon,  and  in 
his  mind  there  sprang  up  a  fear  so  strong  that  it  sur- 
prised him.  They  would  thicken  the  thinning  curtain 
between  himself  and  her  whose  hand  had  lain  upon 
the  table.  They  would  drag  him  back  into  his  own 
century.  The  whole  process  of  isolation  would  have 
to  begin  again.  The  talk  at  luncheon  was  all  of  re- 
gattas and  the  tonnage  of  yachts.  Caston  sat  at  the 

283 


THE  REFUGE 

table  with  his  fear  increasing.  His  visitors  were  friends 
he  would  have  welcomed  five  weeks  ago,  and  he 
would  have  gaily  taken  his  part  in  their  light  talk. 
Now  it  was  every  moment  on  his  lips  to  cry  out: 

"Hold  your  tongues  and  go!" 

They  went  off  at  three  o'clock,  and  a  lady  of  the 
party  wisely  nodded  a  dainty  head  at  him  as  he  stood 
upon  the  steps,  and  remarked: 

•  "You  hated  us  visiting  you,  Mr.  Caston.  You 
have  someone  in  that  house — someone  you  won't 
show  to  us." 

Caston  coloured  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

The  lady  laughed.  "There — I  knew  I  was  right! 
Let  me  guess  who  it  can  be." 

Caston  raised  his  head  in  a  quick  protest. 

"No,  there  is  no  one."  He  tried  to  laugh  easily. 
"That's  my  trouble.  There  is  no  one,  I  am  afraid." 

They  had  driven  his  visitor  away,  without  a  doubt; 
and  though  he  sat  very  still  in  his  arm-chair  that  night, 
careful  as  a  hunter  by  no  abrupt  movement  to  scare 
away  his  quarry,  he  sat  undisturbed.  He  waited  until 
the  light  was  grey  and  the  birds  singing  upon  the  lawn. 
He  went  to  bed  disappointed  as  a  lover  whose  mistress 
had  failed  to  keep  her  tryst. 

On  the  next  day  he  searched  for  and  found  the  cata- 
logue of  the  sale  at  which  he  had  bought  the  table. 
The  sale  had  been  held  at  a  house  called  Bylanes, 
some  five  miles  from  the  Beaulieu  river,  and  the 

284 


THE  REFUGE 

furniture  was  advertised  as  the  property  of  Geoffrey 
Trimingham,  Esq.,  deceased,  and  sold  by  his  young 
widow.  Caston's  memory  was  quickened  by  these 
meagre  details.  He  recollected  stories  which  he  had 
heard  during  the  three  days  of  the  sale.  The  Trim- 
inghams  were  a  branch  of  the  old  Norfolk  family  of 
that  name,  and  had  settled  in  the  New  Forest  so  far 
back  as  the  reign  of  the  first  George.  Geoffrey  Trim- 
ingham, however,  had  delayed  marriage  until  well  sped 
in  years,  and  then  had  committed  the  common  fault 
of  marrying  a  young  woman,  who,  with  no  children 
and  no  traditions  to  detain  her  in  a  neighbourhood 
which  she  considered  gloomy,  had,  as  soon  as  she  was 
free,  sold  off  house  and  furniture — lock,  stock,  and 
barrel — so  that  she  might  retire  to  what  she  considered 
the  more  elegant  neighbourhood  of  Blandford  Square. 

This  was  all  very  well,  but  it  did  not  bring  Harry 
Caston  very  much  nearer  to  the  identification  of  his 
visitor.  She  was  a  Trimingham,  probably,  but  even 
that  was  by  no  means  certain;  and  to  what  generation 
of  Triminghams  she  belonged,  he  knew  no  more  than 
he  knew  her  Christian  name.  He  searched  the  house 
for  the  keys  of  the  table,  but  nowhere  could  he  find 
them.  He  had  never  opened  the  drawers,  he  had 
never  raised  the  lid.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
have  bought  the  table  without  the  keys  at  all. 

He  might  have  broken  it  open,  of  course,  and  from 
time  to  time,  as  the  evenings  passed  in  an  expectation 

285 


THE  REFUGE 

which  was  not  fulfilled,  he  was  tempted  to  take  a  chisel 
in  his  hand  and  set  to  work.  But  he  resisted.  The 
table  was  not  his.  It  was  hers,  and  in  her  presence 
alone  it  must  be  opened. 

Thus  Caston  passed  a  week,  and  then  one  evening 
there  fell  a  shadow  across  the  open  page  of  his  book. 
He  looked  swiftly  up.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  empty 
room,  and  the  flame  of  the  lamp  burned  bright  and 
steady.  She  was  here,  then,  and  as  the  conviction 
grew  within  him  to  a  veritable  exultation,  he  was 
aware  of  rustling  of  a  woman's  gown.  The  sound 
came  from  behind  him.  He  turned  with  a  leap  of  his 
heart,  and  saw  her — saw  her  from  the  crown  of  her 
small  head,  with  its  thick  brown  hair,  to  the  hem  of 
her  dress — not  a  shadow,  not  a  vague  shape  dimly  to 
be  apprehended,  but  as  actual  as  flesh  and  blood 
could  be.  She  was  dressed  in  a  gown  of  pale  blue 
satin  of  an  ancient  mode,  and  was  slender  as  a  child. 
Her  face,  too,  was  the  face  of  one  little  more  than  a 
child,  though  pain  and  trouble  had  ravaged  it. 

She  stood  as  though  she  had  just  stepped  from  the 
garden  on  to  the  window-seat,  and  so  to  the  floor,  and 
in  her  dark  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  the  direst  urgency. 
She  moved  swiftly  across  the  room  to  the  table,  pulled 
at  the  glass  handles,  and  sought  to  lift  the  lid,  and  all 
in  a  feverish  haste,  with  her  young  and  troubled  face 
twitching  as  though  she  were  at  pains  to  check  her 
tears.  Caston  watched  her  eagerly.  He  noticed  that 

286 


THE  REFUGE 

once  more  her  left  hand  was  pressed  flat  upon  the  lid, 
as  she  tried  to  open  the  drawer,  and  then  a  flash  of  gold 
caught  and  held  his  eyes.  Young  though  she  was, 
she  wore  a  wedding-ring.  He  had  barely  noticed  it, 
when  she  turned  from  the  table  and  came  straight 
towards  him.  Caston  rose  from  his  chair.  He  heard 
himself  saying  once  more: 

"Can  I  help?" 

But  this  time  he  did  not  laugh  upon  the  words. 
She  stood  before  him  with  so  pitiful  an  appeal,  her 
hands  clutched  together  in  front  of  her,  her  face  con- 
vulsed. He  spoke  with  the  deference  due  to  those 
who  have  greatly  suffered.  Then  came  to  him  a 
whisper  in  reply,  so  low  that  he  barely  heard  it — so 
low  that  perhaps  he  only  imagined  it. 

"Yes." 

Caston  went  across  to  the  table,  and,  opening  his 
knife,  inserted  it  under  the  lid.  The  girl  stood  at  his 
side,  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  eyes.  Caston  ran  the 
blade  of  the  knife  along  to  the  lock  and  turned  it, 
prising  up  the  lid.  There  was  a  sound  of  the  splitting 
of  wood,  and  the  lock  gave.  Caston  lifted  the  lid.  It 
rose  on  hinges,  and  had  upon  the  under-side  a  bevelled 
mirror,  and  it  disclosed,  when  open,  a  fixed  tray  lined 
with  blue  velvet.  The  tray  was  empty. 

But  now  that  the  lid  was  raised  in  the  centre  of  the 
table,  the  side-pieces  could  be  opened  too.  The  girl 
opened  the  one  at  her  hand.  Caston  saw  a  well, 

2S7 


THE  REFUGE 

lined,  like  the  rest,  with  velvet,  and  filled  with  the 
knick-knacks  and  belongings  of  a  girl.  She  took 
them  out  hurriedly,  heaping  them  together  on  the 
tray — a  walnut-wood  housewife  shaped  and  shut  like 
a  large  card-case,  with  scissors,  thimble,  needle-case, 
tiny  penknife,  all  complete — for  she  opened  it,  as  she 
opened  everything  in  the  haste  and  urgency  of  her 
search — a  large  needle-case  of  ivory,  a  walnut-wood 
egg,  which  unscrewed  and  showed  within  a  reel  with 
silk  still  wound  upon  it,  and  a  little  oval  box  with  a 
label  on  the  top  of  it,  and  the  royal  arms.  Caston 
read  the  label: 

STRINGER'S  CANDY. 

PREPARED   AND   SOLD   ONLY  BY  THE   PROPRIETOR, 

R.   STRINGER, 
DRUGGIST  TO  THE  KING. 

The  top  fell  from  the  little  box,  and  a  shower  of 
shells  rattled  out  of  it.  Bags  of  beads  followed,  wash- 
leather  bags  carefully  tied  up,  and  some  of  them  filled 
with  the  minutest  of  beads.  It  made  Caston's  eyes 
ache  to  think  of  anyone  stringing  them  together.  In 
the  end  the  well  was  emptied,  and,  with  a  gesture  of 
despair,  the  girl  slipped  round  to  the  other  side  of 
Caston.  She  turned  back  the  flap  upon  this  side. 

On  the  other  side  were  the  implements  of  work; 
here  was  the  finished  product.  She  lifted  out  two 
small  anti-macassars,  completely  made  up  of  tiny 
beads  hi  crystal  and  turquoise  colours,  and  worked 

288 


THE  REFUGE 

in  the  most  intricate  patterns.  They  were  extraor- 
dinarily heavy,  and  must  have  taken  months  in 
the  making.  Under  these  were  still  more  beads,  in 
boxes  and  in  bags  and  coiled  in  long  strings.  She 
heaped  them  out  upon  the  tray,  and  looked  into  the 
well.  Her  face  flashed  into  relief.  She  thrust  her 
hands  in;  she  drew  out  from  the  very  bottom  a  faded 
bundle  of  letters.  She  clasped  them  for  a  moment 
close  against  her  heart,  then  very  swiftly,  as  though 
she  feared  to  be  stopped,  she  took  them  over  to  the 
fireplace. 

A  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  for  the  night  was 
chilly.  She  dropped  the  bundle  into  the  flames,  and 
stood  there  while  it  was  consumed.  Caston  saw  the 
glare  of  the  flames  behind  the  paper  light  up  here  and 
there  a  word  or  a  phrase,  and  then  the  edges  curled 
over  and  the  sparks  ran  across  the  sheets,  and  the  letters 
changed  to  white  ashes  and  black  flakes.  When  all 
was  done,  she  sighed  and  turned  to  Caston  with  a 
wistful  smile  of  thanks.  She  moved  back  to  the 
table,  and  with  a  queer  orderliness  which  seemed 
somehow  in  keeping  with  her  looks  and  manner,  she 
replaced  the  beads,  the  little  boxes,  and  the  para- 
phernalia of  her  work  carefully  in  the  wells,  and  shut 
the  table  up.  She  turned  again  to  Caston  at  the  end. 
Just  for  a  second  she  stood  before  him,  her  face  not 
happy,  but  cleared  of  its  trouble,  and  with  a  smile 
upon  her  lips.  She  stood,  surely  a  living  thing. 

289 


THE  REFUGE 

Caston  advanced  to  her.  "You  will  stay  now!"  he 
cried,  and  she  was  gone. 

This  is  the  story  as  Harry  Caston  told  it  to  Mrs. 
Wordingham  when  he  returned  to  London  in  the 
autumn.  She  ridiculed  it  gently  and  with  a  trifle  of 
anxiety,  believing  that  solitude  had  bred  delusions. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harry  Caston  grimly,  and  sitting 
up  very  erect.  Mrs.  Wordingham  changed  her  note. 

"It's  the  most  wonderful  thing  to  have  happened  to 
you,"  she  said.  "I  should  have  been  frightened  out 
of  my  life.  And  you  weren't  ?  " 

Harry  Caston's  face  hardly  relaxed. 

"You  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  he  asserted  sternly. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  replied  soothingly,  "and  I 
quite  see  that,  with  us  nowhere  near  you,  all  your 
senses  became  refined,  and  you  penetrated  behind 
the  curtain.  Yes,  I  see  all  that,  Harry.  But  she 
might,  perhaps,  have  told  you  a  little  more,  mightn't 
she?  As  a  story,  it  almost  sounds  unfinished." 

Harry  Caston  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  tell  you  what  you  are  doing,"  he  said,  standing 
over  her — "you  are  getting  a  little  of  your  own  back." 

"But  such  a  very  little,  Harry,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Wordingham;  and  Harry  Caston  flung  out  of  the  room. 

He  did  not  refer  to  the  subject  again  for  some  little 
while.  But  in  the  month  _of  December,  on  one  foggy 
afternoon,  he  arrived  with  a  new  book  under  his  arm. 
He  put  it  down  on  the  floor  beside  his  chair  rather 

290 


THE  REFUGE 

ostentatiously,  as  one  inviting  questions.    Mrs.  Word- 
ingham  was  serenely  unaware  of  the  book. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Harry?"  she  asked  as  she 
gave  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"In  Norfolk — shooting,"  he  said. 

"Many  birds?" 

"So  few  that  we  did  not  go  out  on  the  second  day. 
We  motored  to  a  church  instead — a  very  old  church 
with  a  beautiful  clerestory." 

Mrs.  Wordingham  affected  an  intense  interest. 

"Old  churches  are  wonderful,"  she  said. 

"You  care  no  more  about  them  than  I  do,"  said 
Harry  Caston  brutally.  "I  am  not  going  to  tell  you 
about  the  church." 

"Oh,  aren't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Wordingham. 

"No.  What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  is  this.  The 
vicar  is  a  friend  of  my  host,  and  happened  to  be  in  the 
church  when  we  arrived.  He  showed  us  the  building 
himself,  and  then,  taking  us  into  the  vestry,  got  out 
the  parish  register.  It  dates  back  a  good  many  years. 
Well,  turning  over  the  leaves,  I  noticed  quite  care- 
lessly an  entry  made  by  the  vicar  in  the  year  1786.  It 
was  a  note  of  a  donation  which  he  had  made  to  the 
parish  as  a  thanksgiving  for  his  recovery  from  a  severe 
operation  which  had  been  performed  upon  him  in 
Norwich  by  a  famous  surgeon  of  the  day  named 
Twiddy." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Wordingham. 
291 


THE  REFUGE 

"That  little  entry  occupied  my  mind  much  more 
than  the  church,"  continued  Caston.  "I  wondered 
what  the  vicar  must  have  felt  as  he  travelled  into  Nor- 
wich in  those  days  of  no  chloroform,  no  antiseptics,  of 
sloughing  wounds,  and  hospital  fevers.  Not  much 
chance  of  his  ever  coming  back  again,  eh?  And  then 
the  revulsion  when  he  did  recover — the  return  home 
to  Frimley-next-the-Sea  alive  and  well!  It  must  all 
have  been  pretty  wonderful  to  the  vicar  in  1786, 
eh?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wordingham  submissively. 

"I  couldn't  get  him  out  of  my  head  and  when  I 
returned  to  London  a  couple  of  days  ago,  I  saw  in  a 
bookseller's  this  book." 

Caston  picked  the  volume  up  from  the  floor. 

"It  seems  that  Twiddy  was  no  end  of  a  swell  with 
his  knife,  so  some  one  of  his  devoted  descendants  has 
had  a  life  written  of  him,  with  all  his  letters  included. 
He  kept  up  an  extensive  correspondence,  as  people  did 
in  those  days.  He  had  a  shrewd  eye  and  a  knack  of 
telling  a  story.  There's  one  here  which  I  wish  you  to 
read  if  you  will.  No,  not  now — when  I  have  gone.  I 
have  put  a  slip  of  paper  in  at  the  page.  I  think  it  will 
interest  you." 

Harry  Caston  went  away.  Mrs.  Wordingham  had 
her  curtains  closed  and  her  lamps  lit.  She  drew  her 
chair  up  to  the  fire,  and  she  opened  "The  Life  and 
Letters  of  Mr.  Edmund  Twiddy,  Surgeon,  of  Nor- 

292 


THE  REFUGE 

wich,"  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a  little 
grimace  of  discontent.  But  the  grimace  soon  left  her 
face,  and  when  her  maid  came  with  a  warning  that 
she  had  accepted  an  invitation  for  that  night  to  din- 
ner, she  found  her  mistress  with  the  book  still  open 
upon  her  knees,  and  her  eyes  staring  with  a  look  of 
wonder  into  the  fire.  For  this  is  what  she  had  read  in 
"The  Life  and  Letters  of  Mr.  Edmund  Twiddy." 

"I  have  lately  had  a  curious  case  under  my  charge, 
which  has  given  me  more  trouble  than  I  care  to  con- 
fess. For  sentiment  is  no  part  of  the  equipment  of  a 
surgeon.  It  perplexed  as  well  as  troubled  me,  and  some 
clue  to  the  explanation  was  only  afforded  me  yester- 
day. Three  months  ago  my  servant  brought  me  word 
one  evening  that  there  was  a  lady  very  urgent  to  see 
me,  of  the  name  of  Mrs.  Braxfield.  I  replied  that  my 
work  was  done,  and  she  must  return  at  a  more  season- 
able time.  But  while  I  was  giving  this  message  the 
door  was  pushed  open,  and  already  she  stood  in  front 
of  me.  She  was  a  slip  of  a  girl,  very  pretty  to  look  at, 
and  shrinking  with  alarm  at  her  own  audacity.  Yet 
she  held  her  ground. 

"'Mrs.  Braxfield,'  I  cried,  'you  have  no  right  to  be 
married — you  are  much  too  young!  Young  girls 
hooked  at  your  age  ought  to  be  put  back.' 

"'I  am  ill,'  she  said,  and  I  nodded  to  the  servant  to 
leave  us. 

" '  Very  well,'  I  said.    '  What's  the  matter  ? ' 
293 


THE  REFUGE 

"'My  throat/  said  she. 

"  I  looked  at  it.  There  was  trouble,  but  the  trouble 
was  not  so  very  serious,  though  I  recognised  that  at 
some  time  treatment  would  be  advisable. 

"'There's  no  hurry  at  all  about  it/  I  said,  when  my 
examination  was  concluded,  'but,  on  the  whole,  you 
are  right  to  get  it  looked  to  soon.'  I  spoke  roughly, 
for  I  shrank  a  little  from  having  this  tender  bit  of  a 
girl  under  my  knife.  '  Where's  your  husband  ? ' 

"'He  is  in  Spain/  she  replied. 

"'Oh,  indeed!'  said  I  with  some  surprise.  'Well, 
when  he  returns,  we  can  talk  about  it.' 

"Mrs.  Braxfield  shook  her  head. 

"'No,  I  want  it  done  now,  while  he's  away/  she 
said,  and  nothing  that  I  could  say  would  shake  her 
from  her  purpose.  I  fathered  her,  and  bullied  her,  and 
lectured  her,  but  she  stood  her  ground.  Her  lips 
trembled;  she  was  afraid  of  me,  and  still  more  desper- 
ately afraid  of  what  waited  for  her.  I  could  see  her 
catch  her  breath  and  turn  pale  as  she  thought  upon  the 
ordeal.  But  the  same  sort  of  timid  courage  which 
had  made  her  push  into  my  room  before  I  could  refuse 
to  see  her,  sustained  her  now.  I  raised  my  hands  at 
last  in  despair. 

"'Very  well/  I  said.  'Give  me  your  husband's 
address.  I  will  send  a  letter  to  him,  and  if  he  con- 
sents, we  will  not  wait  for  his  return.' 

"'No,'  she  insisted  stubbornly,  'I  do  not  want  him 
294 


THE  REFUGE 

to  know  anything  about  it.  But  if  you  will  not  attend 
me,  no  doubt  someone  else  will.' 

"That  was  my  trouble.  The  throat,  look  at  it  how 
you  will,  is  a  ticklish  affair.  If  she  went  away  from 
me,  Heaven  knows  into  whose  hands  she  might  fall. 
She  had  some  money  and  was  well  dressed.  Some 
quack  would  have  used  his  blundering  knife.  I  could 
have  shaken  her  for  her  obstinacy,  and  would  have,  if 
I  had  had  a  hope  that  I  would  shake  it  out  of  her. 
But  she  had  screwed  herself  up  to  a  pitch  of  determina- 
tion almost  unbelievable  in  her.  I  could  make  her 
cry;  I  could  not  make  her  draw  back  from  her  resolve. 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  could  I  allow  her  to  go  out  of 
my  house  and  hand  herself  over  to  be  butchered  by  any 
Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  of  a  barber  on  the  look-out  for  a 
fat  fee.  So  I  gave  in. 

"I  got  her  a  lodging  in  this  town,  and  a  woman  to 
look  after  her,  and  I  did  what  needed  to  be  done  with 
as  little  pain  as  might  be. 

"'You  won't  hurt  me  more  than  you  can  help/  she 
said  in  a  sort  of  childish  wail.  And  then  she  shut  her 
eyes  and  bore  it  with  an  extraordinary  fortitude; 
while,  for  my  part,  I  never  worked  more  neatly  or 
more  quickly  in  my  life,  and  in  a  few  days  she  was 
quite  comfortable  again. 

"But  here  she  began  to  perplex  me.  For  though 
the  wound  healed,  and  there  was  no  fever,  she  did  not 
mend.  She  lay  from  day  to  day  in  an  increasing  weak- 

295 


THE  REFUGE 

ness,  for  which  I  could  not  account.  I  drew  a  chair 
up  to  her  bed  one  morning  and  took  my  seat. 

"'My  dear/  I  said,  'a  good  many  of  us  are  father- 
confessors  as  well  as  doctors.  We  needs  must  be  at 
times  if  our  patients  are  to  get  well  and  do  us  credit. 
You  are  lying  here  surely  with  a  great  trouble  on  your 
mind.  It  shall  be  sacred  to  me,  but  I  must  know  it 
if  I  am  to  cure  you/ 

"The  girl  looked  at  me  with  a  poor  little  smile. 

"'No,  there's  nothing  at  all,'  she  said;  and  even 
while  she  spoke  she  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow,  and 
a  light  dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"'Listen!'  she  said. 

"I  heard  a  step  coming  nearer  and  nearer  along  the 
pavement  outside.  As  it  grew  louder,  she  raised  her- 
self upon  her  elbow,  and  when  the  footsteps  ceased  out- 
side the  door,  her  whole  soul  leapt  into  her  face. 

"'There  will  be  a  letter  for  me!'  she  cried,  with  a 
joyous  clapping  of  her  hands. 

"The  footsteps  moved  on  and  became  fainter  and 
more  faint.  The  girl  remained  propped  up,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  door.  But  no  one  came. 

" '  It  has  been  left  in  the  hall,'  she  said,  turning  wist- 
fully to  me. 

'"I  will  send  it  up  if  it  is  there,'  said  I. 

"I  went  downstairs  rather  heavy  at  heart.  Here 
was  the  reason  why  she  did  not  mend.  Here  it  was, 
and  I  saw  no  cure  for  it.  There  was  no  letter  in  the 

296 


THE  REFUGE 

hall,  nor  did  I  expect  to  find  one.  I  sent  for  the 
woman  who  waited  upon  her.  '  Does  she  always  expect 
a  letter?' 

"The  woman  nodded. 

"'She  knows  the  postman's  step,  sir,  even  when  he 
is  a  long  way  off.  She  singles  it  out  from  all  other 
sounds.  If  he  stops  at  the  door,  I  must  run  down  upon 
the  instant.  But  whether  he  stops  or  not,  it  is  always 
the  same  thing — there  is  no  letter  for  her.' 

"  I  went  upstairs  again  and  into  her  room.  The  girl 
was  lying  upon  her  side,  with  her  faced  pressed  into 
the  pillow,  and  crying.  I  patted  her  shoulder. 

"'Come,  Mrs.  Braxfield,  you  must  tell  me  what  the 
trouble  is,  and  we  will  put  our  heads  together  and 
discover  a  remedy.' 

"But  she  drew  away  from  me.  'There  is  nothing,' 
she  repeated.  'I  am  weak — that  is  all.' 

"I  could  get  no  more  from  her,  and  the  next  day  I 
besought  her  to  tell  me  where  I  might  find  her  hus- 
band. But  upon  that  point,  too,  she  was  silent.  Then 
came  a  night,  about  a  week  later,  when  she  fell  into  a 
delirium,  and  I  sat  by  her  side  and  wrestled  with  death 
for  her.  I  fought  hard  with  what  resources  I  had,  for 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  die  but  the  extreme 
weakness  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

"I  sat  by  the  bed,  thinking  that  now  at  last  I  should 
learn  the  secret  which  ravaged  her.  But  there  was  no 
coherency  in  what  she  said.  She  talked  chiefly,  I  re- 

297 


THE  REFUGE 

member,  of  a  work-table  and  of  something  hidden  there 
which  she  must  destroy.  She  was  continually,  in  her 
delirium,  searching  its  drawers,  opening  the  lid  and 
diving  amongst  her  embroidery  and  beads,  as  though 
she  could  not  die  and  let  the  thing  be  found. 

"So  till  the  grey  of  the  morning,  when  she  came 
out  of  her  delirium,  turned  very  wistfully  to  me  with 
a  feeble  motion  of  her  hands,  and  said: 

"'You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  doctor.' 

"  She  lay  thus  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  she  cried 
in  a  low  sad  voice:  'Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur!'  And  with 
that  name  upon  her  lips  she  died. 

"She  carried  her  secret  with  her,  leaving  me  in  the 
dark  as  to  who  she  was  and  how  I  was  to  lay  my  hands 
upon  one  of  her  relations.  I  buried  the  poor  girl  here, 
and  I  advertised  for  her  husband  in  The  London  News- 
letter, and  I  made  inquiries  of  our  ambassador  in  Spain. 
A  week  ago  Mr.  Braxfield  appeared  at  my  house.  He 
was  a  man  of  sixty  years  of  age,  and  his  Christian  name 
was  Robert. 

"He  gave  me  some  few  details  about  his  marriage, 
and  from  them  I  am  able  to  put  together  the  rest  of 
the  story.  Mr.  Braxfield  is  a  Spanish  merchant  of 
means,  and  the  girl,  a  Trimingham  of  that  branch  of 
the  family  which  moved  a  long  while  since  into  Hamp- 
shire, was,  no  doubt,  pressed  into  marriage  with  him 
owing  to  the  straitened  position  of  her  parents.  Mr. 
Braxfield  and  his  young  wife  took  up  their  residence 

298 


THE  REFUGE 

in  Soho  Square,  in  London,  until,  at  the  beginning  of 
this  year,  business  called  him  once  more  to  Spain  for 
some  months. 

"His  wife  thereupon  elected  to  return  to  her  home, 
and  there  Mr.  Braxfield  believed  her  to  be,  until  chance 
threw  one  of  my  advertisements  in  his  way.  Her  own 
parents,  for  their  part,  understood  that  she  had  re- 
turned to  her  house  in  Soho  Square.  To  me,  then,  the 
story  is  clear.  Having  married  without  love,  she  had 
given  her  heart  to  someone,  probably  after  her  return 
to  her  own  home — someone  called  Arthur.  Whether 
he  had  treated  her  ill,  I  cannot  say.  But  I  take  it 
that  he  had  grown  cold,  and  she  had  looked  upon  this 
trouble  with  her  throat  as  her  opportunity  to  hold 
him.  The  risk,  the  suffering — these  things,  one  can 
imagine  her  believing,  must  make  their  appeal.  She 
had  pretended  to  return  to  London.  She  had  travelled, 
instead,  to  Norwich,  letting  him  and  him  alone  know 
what  she  was  about.  The  great  experiment  failed. 
She  looked  for  some  letter;  no  letter  came.  But  had 
letters  passed?  Are  these  letters  locked  up  amongst 
the  embroidery  and  the  beads  in  that  work-table,  I 
wonder?  Let  us  hope  that,  if  they  are,  they  trouble 
her  no  longer." 


299 


PEIFFER 


PEIFFER 

For  a  moment  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  stout  and 
rubicund  Slingsby  in  Lisbon.  He  was  drinking  a  ver- 
mouth and  seltzer' at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  at  a 
cafe  close  to  the  big  hotel.  But  at  that  time  Portugal 
was  still  a  neutral  country  and  a  happy  hunting 
ground  for  a  good  many  thousand  Germans.  Slingsby 
was  lolling  in  his  chair  with  such  exceeding  indolence 
that  I  could  not  doubt  his  business  was  pressing  and 
serious.  I  accordingly  passed  him  by  as  if  I  had 
never  seen  him  in  my  life  before.  But  he  called  out 
to  me.  So  I  took  a  seat  at  his  table. 

Of  what  we  talked  about  I  have  not  the  least  recol- 
lection, for  my  eyes  were  quite  captivated  by  a  strange 
being  who  sat  alone  fairly  close  to  Slingsby,  at  one  side 
and  a  little  behind  him.  This  was  a  man  of  middle 
age,  with  reddish  hair,  a  red,  square,  inflamed  face  and 
a  bristly  moustache.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dirty  suit  of 
grey  flannel;  he  wore  a  battered  Panama  pressed  down 
upon  his  head;  he  carried  pince-nez  on  the  bridge  of 
his  nose,  and  he  sat  with  a  big  bock  of  German  beer  in 
front  of  him.  But  I  never  saw  him  touch  the  beer. 
He  sat  in  a  studied  attitude  of  ferocity,  his  elbow  on 
the  table,  his  chin  propped  on  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
his  head  pushed  aggressively  forward,  and  he  glared 

303 


PEIFFER 

at  Slingsby  through  his  glasses  with  the  fixed  stare  of 
hatred  and  fury  which  a  master  workman  in  wax  might 
give  to  a  figure  in  a  Chamber  of  Horrors.  Indeed, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  he  must  have  rehearsed  his  bear- 
ing in  some  such  quarter,  for  there  was  nothing  natural 
or  convinced  in  him  from  the  brim  of  his  Panama  to 
the  black  patent  leather  tips  of  his  white  canvas  shoes. 

I  touched  Slingsby  on  the  arm. 

"  Who  is  that  man,  and  what  have  you  done  to  him  ?  " 

Slingsby  looked  round  unconcernedly. 

"Oh,  that's  only  Peiffer/'  he  replied.  "Peiffer 
making  frightfulness." 

"Peiffer?" 

The  name  was  quite  strange  to  me. 

"Yes.  Don't  you  know  him?  He's  a  product  of 
1914,"  and  Slingsby  leaned  towards  me  a  little. 
"  Peiffer  is  an  officer  in  the  German  Navy.  You  would 
hardly  guess  it,  but  he  is.  Now  that  their  country  is 
at  war,  officers  in  the  German  Navy  have  a  marked 
amount  of  spare  time  which  they  never  had  before.  So 
Peiffer  went  to  a  wonderful  Government  school  in 
Hamburg,  where  in  twenty  lessons  they  teach  the 
gentle  art  of  espionage,  a  sort  of  Berlitz  school.  Peiffer 
ate  his  dinners  and  got  his  degrees,  so  to  speak,  and 
now  he's  at  Lisbon  putting  obi  on  me." 

"It  seems  rather  infantile,  and  must  be  annoying," 
I  said;  but  Slingsby  would  only  accept  half  the  state- 
ment. "Infantile,  yes.  Annoying,  not  at  all.  For  so 

304 


PEIFFER 

long  as  Peiffer  is  near  me,  being  frightful,  I  know  he's 
not  up  to  mischief." 

"Mischief!"  I  cried.  "That  fellow?  What  mis- 
chief can  he  do  ?  " 

Slingsby  viciously  crushed  the  stub  of  his  cigarette 
in  the  ashtray. 

"A  deuce  of  a  lot,  my  friend.  Don't  make  any  mis- 
take. Peiffer's  methods  are  infantile  and  barbaric, 
but  he  has  a  low  and  fertile  cunning  in  the  matter  of 
ideas.  I  know.  I  have  had  some." 

And  Slingsby  was  to  have  more,  very  much  more: 
in  the  shape  of  a  great  many  sleepless  nights,  during 
which  he  wrestled  with  a  dreadful  uncertainty  to  get 
behind  that  square  red  face  and  those  shining  pince- 
nez,  and  reach  the  dark  places  of  Peiffer's  mind. 

The  first  faint  wisp  of  cloud  began  to  show  six  weeks 
later,  when  Slingsby  happened  to  be  in  Spain. 

"Something's  up,"  he  said,  scratching  his  head. 
"But  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  guess  what  it  is.  See  what 
you  can  make  of  it";  and  here  is  the  story  which  he 
told. 

Three  Germans  dressed  in  the  black  velvet  corduroy, 
the  white  stockings  and  the  rope-soled  white  shoes  of 
the  Spanish  peasant,  arrived  suddenly  in  the  town  of 
Cartagena,  and  put  up  at  an  inn  in  a  side-street  near 
the  harbour.  Cartagena,  for  all  that  it  is  one  of  the 
chief  naval  ports  of  Spain,  is  a  small  place,  and  the  life 
of  it  ebbs  and  flows  in  one  narrow  street,  the  Calle 

305 


PEIFFER 

Mayor;  so  that  very  little  can  happen  which  is  not 
immediately  known  and  discussed.  The  arrival  of  the 
three  mysterious  Germans  provoked,  consequently, 
a  deal  of  gossip  and  curiosity,  and  the  curiosity  was 
increased  when  the  German  Consul  sitting  in  front  of 
the  Casino  loudly  professed  complete  ignorance  of 
these  very  doubtful  compatriots  of  his,  and  an  exceed- 
ing great  contempt  for  them.  The  next  morning, 
however,  brought  a  new  development.  The  three 
Germans  complained  publicly  to  the  Alcalde.  They 
had  walked  through  Valencia,  Alicante,  and  Murcia 
in  search  of  work,  and  everywhere  they  had  been 
pestered  and  shadowed  by  the  police. 

"Our  Consul  will  do  nothing  for  us,"  they  protested 
indignantly.  "He  will  not  receive  us,  nor  will  any 
German  in  Cartagena.  We  are  poor  people."  And 
having  protested,  they  disappeared  in  the  night. 

But  a  few  days  later  the  three  had  emerged  again  at 
Almeria,  and  at  a  mean  cafe  in  one  of  the  narrow,  blue- 
washed  Moorish  streets  of  the  old  town.  Peiffer  was 
identified  as  one  of  the  three — not  the  Peiffer  who  had 
practised  frightfulness  in  Lisbon,  but  a  new  and  won- 
derful Peiffer,  who  inveighed  against  the  shamelessness 
of  German  officials  on  the  coasts  of  Spain.  At  Al- 
meria, in  fact,  Peiffer  made  a  scene  at  the  German 
Vice-Consulate,  and,  having  been  handed  over  to  the 
police,  was  fined  and  threatened  with  imprisonment. 
At  this  point  the  story  ended. 

306 


PEIFFER 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  asked  Slingsby. 

"First,  that  Peiffer  is  working  south;  and,  secondly, 
that  he  is  quarrelling  with  his  own  officials." 

"Yes,  but  quarrelling  with  marked  publicity,"  said 
Slingsby.  "That,  I  think  we  shall  find,  is  the  point  of 
real  importance.  Peiffer's  methods  are  not  merely 
infantile;  they  are  elaborate.  He  is  working  down 
South.  I  think  that  I  will  go  to  Gibraltar.  I  have 
always  wished  to  see  it." 

Whether  Slingsby  was  speaking  the  truth,  I  had  not 
an  idea.  But  he  went  to  Gibraltar,  and  there  an  aston- 
ishing thing  happened  to  him.  He  received  a  letter, 
and  the  letter  came  from  Peiffer.  Peiffer  was  at  Alge- 
ciras,  just  across  the  bay  in  Spain,  and  he  wanted  an 
interview.  He  wrote  for  it  with  the  most  brazen  im- 
pertinence. 

"I  cannot,  owing  to  this  with-wisdom-so-easily-to- 
have-been-avoided  war,  come  myself  to  Gibraltar,  but 
I  will  remain  at  your  disposition  here." 

"  That,"  said  Slingsby,  "from  the  man  who  was  mak- 
ing frightfulness  at  me  a  few  weeks  ago,  is  a  proof 
of  some  nerve.  We  will  go  and  see  Peiffer.  We  will 
stay  at  Algeciras  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  and  we 
will  hear  what  he  has  to  say." 

A  polite  note  was  accordingly  dispatched,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  Peiffer,  decently  clothed  in  a  suit  of 
serge,  was  shown  into  Slingsby's  private  sitting-room. 
He  plunged  at  once  into  the  story  of  his  wanderings. 

307 


PEIFFER 

We  listened  to  it  without  a  sign  that  we  knew  anything 
about  it. 

"So?"  from  time  to  time  said  Slingsby,  with  inflec- 
tions of  increasing  surprise,  but  that  was  all.  Then 
Peiffer  went  on  to  his  grievances. 

"Perhaps  you  have  heard  how  I  was  treated  by  the 
Consuls?"  he  interrupted  himself  to  ask  suddenly. 

"  No,"  Slingsby  replied  calmly.     "  Continue ! " 

Peiffer  wiped  his  forehead  and  his  glasses.  We  were 
each  one,  in  his  way,  all  working  for  our  respective 
countries.  The  work  was  honourable.  But  there 
were  limits  to  endurance.  All  his  fatigue  and  perils 
went  for  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  comfortable  officials  sure 
of  their  salary.  He  had  been  fined;  he  had  been 
threatened  with  imprisonment.  It  was  unverschdmt 
the  way  he  had  been  treated. 

"So?"  said  Slingsby  firmly.  There  are  fine  inflec- 
tions by  which  that  simple  word  may  be  made  to  ex- 
press most  of  the  emotions.  Slingsby 's  "So?"  ex- 
pressed a  passionate  agreement  with  the  downtrodden 
Peiffer. 

"Flesh  and  blood  can  stand  it  no  longer,"  cried 
Peiffer,  "and  my  heart  is  flesh.  No,  I  have  had 
enough." 

Throughout  the  whole  violent  tirade,  in  his  eyes,  in 
his  voice,  in  his  gestures,  there  ran  an  eager,  wistful 
plea  that  we  should  take  him  at  his  face  value  and 
believe  every  word  he  said. 

308 


PEIFFER 

"So  I  came  to  you,"  he  said  at  last,  slapping  his 
knee  and  throwing  out  his  hand  afterwards  like  a  man 
who  has  taken  a  mighty  resolution.  "Yes.  I  have 
no  money,  nothing.  And  they  will  give  me  none.  It 
is  unverschdmt.  So,"  and  he  screwed  up  his  little  eyes 
and  wagged  a  podgy  forefinger — "so  the  service  I  had 
begun  for  my  Government  I  will  now  finish  for  you." 

Slingsby  examined  the  carpet  curiously. 

"Well,  there  are  possibly  some  shillings  to  be  had  if 
the  service  is  good  enough.  I  do  not  know.  But  I 
cannot  deal  in  the  dark.  What  sort  of  a  service  is  it? " 

"Ah!" 

Peiffer  hitched  his  chair  nearer. 

"It  is  a  question  of  rifles — rifles  for  over  there," 
and,  looking  out  through  the  window,  he  nodded 
towards  Gibel  Musa  and  the  coast  of  Morocco. 

Slingsby  did  not  so  much  as  flinch.  I  almost 
groaned  aloud.  We  were  to  be  treated  to  the  stock 
legend  of  the  ports,  the  new  edition  of  the  Spanish 
prisoner  story.  I,  the  mere  tourist  in  search  of  health, 
could  have  gone  on  with  Peiffer's  story  myself,  even 
to  the  exact  number  of  the  rifles. 

"It  was  a  great  plan,"  Peiffer  continued.  "Fifty 
thousand  rifles,  no  less."  There  always  were  fifty- 
thousand  rifles.  "They  are  buried — near  the  sea." 
They  always  were  buried  either  near  the  sea  or  on  the 
frontier  of  Portugal.  "With  ammunition.  They  are 
to  be  landed  outside  Melilla,  where  I  have  been  about 

309 


PEIFFER 

this  very  affair,  and  distributed  amongst  the  Moors 
in  the  unsubdued  country  on  the  edge  of  the  French 
zone." 

"So?"  exclaimed  Slingsby  with  the  most  admirable 
imitation  of  consternation. 

"Yes,  but  you  need  not  fear.  You  shall  have  the 
rifles — when  I  know  exactly  where  they  are  buried." 

"Ah!"  said  Slingsby. 

He  had  listened  to  the  familiar  rigmarole,  certain 
that  behind  it  there  was  something  real  and  sinister 
which  he  did  not  know — something  which  he  was 
desperately  anxious  to  find  out. 

"Then  you  do  not  know  where  they  are  buried?" 

"No,  but  I  shall  know  if — I  am  allowed  to  go  into 
Gibraltar.  Yes,  there  is  someone  there.  I  must  put 
myself  into  relations  with  him.  Then  I  shall  know, 
and  so  shall  you." 

So  here  was  some  part  of  the  truth,  at  all  events. 
Peiffer  wanted  to  get  into  Gibraltar.  His  disappear- 
ance from  Lisbon,  his  reappearance  in  corduroys,  his 
quarrelsome  progress  down  the  east  coast,  his  letter  to 
Slingsby,  and  his  story,  were  all  just  the  items  of  an 
elaborate  piece  of  machinery  invented  to  open  the  gates 
of  that  fortress  to  him.  Slingsby's  only  movement  was 
to  take  his  cigarette-case  lazily  from  his  pocket. 

"But  why  in  the  world,"  he  asked,  "can't  you  get 
your  man  in  Gibraltar  to  come  out  here  and  see  you  ? " 

Peiffer  shook  his  head. 

310 


PEIFFER 

"He  would  not  come.  He  has  been  told  to  expect 
me,  and  I  shall  give  him  certain  tokens  from  which  he 
can  guess  my  trustworthiness.  If  I  write  to  him, 
'Come  to  me,'  he  will  say  'This  is  a  trap.'" 

Slingsby  raised  another  objection: 

"But  I  shouldn't  think  that  you  can  expect  the 
authorities  to  give  you  a  safe  conduct  into  Gibraltar 
upon  your  story." 

Peiffer  swept  that  argument  aside  with  a  contemptu- 
ous wave  of  his  hand. 

"I  have  a  Danish  passport.  See !"  and  he  took  the 
document  from  his  breast  pocket.  It  was  complete, 
to  his  photograph. 

"Yes,  you  can  certainly  come  in  on  that,"  said 
Slingsby.  He  reflected  for  a  moment  before  he  added : 
"  I  have  no  power,  of  course.  But  I  have  some  friends. 
I  think  you  may  reasonably  reckon  that  you  won't  be 
molested." 

I  saw  Peiffer's  eyes  glitter  behind  his  glasses. 

"But  there's  a  condition,"  Slingsby  continued 
sharply.  "You  must  not  leave  Gibraltar  without 
coming  personally  to  me  and  giving  me  twenty-four 
hours'  notice." 

Peiffer  was  all  smiles  and  agreement. 

"  But  of  course.  We  shall  have  matters  to  talk  over 
— terms  to  arrange.  I  must  see  you." 

"Exactly.  Cross  by  the  nine-fifty  steamer  to- 
morrow morning.  Is  that  understood?" 

311 


PEIFFER 

"Yes,  sir."  And  suddenly  Peiffer  stood  up  and 
actually  saluted,  as  though  he  had  now  taken  service 
under  Slingsby's  command. 

The  unexpected  movement  almost  made  me  vomit. 
Slingsby  himself  moved  quickly  away,  and  his  face 
lost  for  a  second  the  mask  of  impassivity.  He  stood 
at  the  window  and  looked  across  the  water  to  the  city 
of  Gibraltar. 

Slingsby  had  been  wounded  in  the  early  days  of  the 
war,  and  ever  since  he  had  been  greatly  troubled  be- 
cause he  was  not  still  in  the  trenches  in  Flanders. 
The  casualty  lists  filled  him  with  shame  and  discon- 
tent. So  many  of  his  friends,  the  men  who  had 
trained  and  marched  with  him,  were  laying  down  their 
gallant  lives.  He  should  have  been  with  them.  But 
during  the  last  few  days  a  new  knowledge  and  inspira- 
tion had  come  to  him.  Gibraltar!  A  tedious,  little, 
unlovely  town  of  yellow  houses  and  coal  sheds,  with 
an  undesirable  climate.  Yes.  But  above  it  was  the 
rock,  the  heart  of  a  thousand  memories  and  traditions 
which  made  it  beautiful.  He  looked  at  it  now  with  its 
steep  wooded  slopes,  scarred  by  roads  and  catchments 
and  the  emplacements  of  guns.  How  much  of  Eng- 
land was  recorded  there !  To  how  many  British  sail- 
ing on  great  ships  from  far  dominions  this  huge  buttress 
towering  to  its  needle-ridge  was  the  first  outpost  of 
the  homeland !  And  for  the  moment  he  seemed  to 

312 


PEIFFER 

be  its  particular  guardian,  the  ear  which  must  listen 
night  and  day  lest  harm  come  to  it.  Harm  the  Rock, 
and  all  the  Empire,  built  with  such  proud  and  arduous 
labour,  would  stagger  under  the  blow,  from  St.  Kilda 
to  distant  Lyttelton.  He  looked  across  the  water  and 
imagined  Gibraltar  as  it  looked  at  night,  its  house- 
lights  twinkling  like  a  crowded  zone  of  stars,  and  its 
great  search-beams  turning  the  ships  in  the  har- 
bour and  the  stone  of  the  moles  into  gleaming  silver, 
and  travelling  far  over  the  dark  waters.  No  harm 
must  come  to  Gibraltar.  His  honour  was  all  bound  up 
in  that.  This  was  his  service,  and  as  he  thought  upon 
it  he  was  filled  with  a  cold  fury  against  the  traitor  who 
thought  it  so  easy  to  make  him  fail.  But  every  hint 
of  his  anger  had  passed  from  his  face  as  he  turned 
back  into  the  room. 

"  If  you  bring  me  good  information,  why,  we  can  do 
business,"  he  said;  and  Peiffer  went  away. 

I  was  extremely  irritated  by  the  whole  interview, 
and  could  hardly  wait  for  the  door  to  close. 

"What  knocks  me  over,"  I  cried,  "is  the  imperti- 
nence of  the  man.  Does  he  really  think  that  any 
old  yarn  like  the  fifty  thousand  rifles  is  going  to  de- 
ceive you  ?  " 

Slingsby  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Peiffer's  true  to  type,  that's  all,"  he  answered  im- 
perturbably.  "They  are  vain,  and  vanity  makes  them 
think  that  you  will  at  once  believe  what  they  want 

313 


PEIFFER 

you  to  believe.  So  their  deceits  are  a  little  crude." 
Then  a  smile  broke  over  his  face,  and  to  some  tune 
with  which  I  was  unfamiliar  he  sang  softly:  "But  he's 
coming  to  Gibraltar  in  the  morning." 

"You  think  he  will?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And,"  I  added  doubtfully — it  was  not  my  business 
to  criticise — "on  conditions  he  can  walk  out  again?" 

Slingsby's  smile  became  a  broad  grin. 

"His  business  in  Gibraltar,  my  friend,  is  not  with 
me.  He  will  not  want  to  meet  us  any  more;  as  soon 
as  he  has  done  what  he  came  for  he  will  go — or  try  to 
go.  He  thinks  we  are  fools,  you  see." 

And  in  the  end  it  seemed  almost  as  though  Peiffer 
was  justified  of  his  belief.  He  crossed  the  next  morn- 
ing. He  went  to  a  hotel  of  the  second  class;  he  slept 
in  the  hotel,  and  next  morning  he  vanished.  Sud- 
denly there  was  no  more  Peiffer.  Peiffer  was  not. 
For  six  hours  Peiffer  was  not;  and  then  at  half-past 
five  in  the  afternoon  the  telephone  bell  rang  in  an  office 
where  Slingsby  was  waiting.  He  rushed  to  the  in- 
strument. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  cried,  and  I  saw  a  wave  of  relief 
surge  into  his  face.  Peiffer  had  been  caught  outside 
the  gates  and  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  neutral 
zone.  He  had  strolled  out  in  the  thick  of  the  dock- 
yard workmen  going  home  to  Linea  in  Spain. 

"Search  him  and  bring  him  up  here  at  once,"  said 
314 


PEIFFER 

Slingsby,  and  he  dropped  into  his  chair  and  wiped  his 
forehead.  "Phew!  Thirty  seconds  more  and  he 
might  have  snapped  his  fingers  at  us."  He  turned 
to  me.  "I  shall  want  a  prisoner's  escort  here  in  half 
an  hour." 

I  went  about  that  business  and  returned  in  time  to 
see  Slingsby  giving  an  admirable  imitation  of  a  Prus- 
sian police  official. 

"So,  Peiffer,"  he  cried  sternly,  "y°u  broke  your 
word.  Do  not  deny  it.  It  will  be  useless." 

The  habit  of  a  lifetime  asserted  itself  in  Peiffer. 
He  quailed  before  authority  when  authority  began  to 
bully. 

"I  did  not  know  I  was  outside  the  walls,"  he  faltered. 
"I  was  taking  a  walk.  No  one  stopped  me." 

"So!"  Slingsby  snorted.  "And  these,  Peiffer— 
what  have  you  to  say  of  these  ?  " 

There  were  four  separate  passports  which  had  been 
found  in  Peiffer's  pockets.  He  could  be  a  Dane  of 
Esbjerg,  a  Swede  of  Stockholm,  a  Norwegian  of  Chris- 
tiania,  or  a  Dutchman  from  Amsterdam.  All  four 
nationalities  were  open  to  Peiffer  to  select  from. 

"They  provide  you  with  these,  no  doubt,  in  your 
school  at  Hamburg,"  and  Slingsby  paused  to  collect 
his  best  German.  "You  are  a  prisoner  of  war.  Das 
ist  genug,"  he  cried,  and  Peiffer  climbed  to  the  intern- 
ment camp. 

So  far  so  good.  Slingsby  had  annexed  Peiffer,  but 
315 


PEIFFER 

more  Important  than  Peiffer  was  Peiffer's  little  plot, 
and  that  he  had  not  got.  Nor  did  the  most  careful 
inquiry  disclose  what  Peiffer  had  done  and  where  he 
had  been  during  the  time  when  he  was  not.  For  six 
hours  Peiffer  had  been  loose  in  Gibraltar,  and  Slingsby 
began  to  get  troubled.  He  tried  to  assume  the  mental- 
ity of  Peiffer,  and  so  reach  his  intention,  but  that  did 
not  help.  He  got  out  all  the  reports  in  which  Peiffer's 
name  was  mentioned  and  read  them  over  again. 

I  saw  him  sit  back  in  his  chair  and  remain  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  and  he  turned  over  the 
report  to  me,  pointing  to  a  passage.  It  was  written 
some  months  before,  at  Melilla,  on  the  African  side  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  it  ran  like  this: 

"Peiffer  frequents  the  low  houses  and  cafes,  where 
he  spends  a  good  deal  of  money  and  sometimes  gets 
drunk.  When  drunk  he  gets  very  arrogant,  and  has 
been  known  to  boast  that  he  has  been  three  times  in 
Bordeaux  since  the  war  began,  and,  thanks  to  his  pass- 
ports, can  travel  as  easily  as  if  the  world  were  at  peace. 
On  such  occasions  he  expresses  the  utmost  contempt 
for  neutral  nations.  I  myself  have  heard  him  burst 
out:  'Wait  until  we  have  settled  with  our  enemies. 
Then  we  will  deal  properly  with  the  neutral  nations. 
They  shall  explain  to  us  on  their  knees.  Meanwhile/ 
and  he  thumped  the  table,  making  the  glasses  rattle, 

316 


PEIFFER 

'let  them  keep  quiet  and  hold  their  tongues.    We  shall 
do  what  we  like  in  neutral  countries. ' ' 

I  read  the  passage. 

"Do  you  see  that  last  sentence  ?  'We  shall  do  what 
we  like  in  neutral  countries.'  No  man  ever  spoke  the 
mind  of  his  nation  better  than  Peiffer  did  that  night 
in  a  squalid  cafe  in  Melilla." 

Slingsby  looked  out  over  the  harbour  to  where  the 
sun  was  setting  on  the  sierras.  He  would  have  given 
an  arm  to  be  sure  of  what  Peiffer  had  set  on  foot  behind 
those  hills. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  uneasily,  and  from  that  day  he 
began  to  sleep  badly. 

Then  came  another  and  a  most  disquieting  phase  of 
the  affair.  Peiffer  began  to  write  letters  to  Slingsby. 
He  was  not  comfortable.  He  was  not  being  treated 
as  an  officer  should  be.  He  had  no  amusements,  and 
his  food  was  too  plain.  Moreover,  there  were  Germans 
and  Austrians  up  in  the  camp  who  turned  up  their 
noses  at  him  because  their  birth  was  better  than  his. 

"You  see  what  these  letters  mean?"  said  Slingsby. 
"Peiffer  wants  to  be  sent  away  from  the  Rock." 

"You  are  reading  your  own  ideas  into  them,"  I 
replied. 

But  Slingsby  was  right.  Each  letter  under  its 
simple  and  foolish  excuses  was  a  prayer  for  transla- 
tion to  a  less  dangerous  place.  For  as  the  days  passed 

317 


PEIFFER 

and  no  answer  was  vouchsafed,  the  prayer  became  a 
real  cry  of  fear. 

"I  claim  to  be  sent  to  England  without  any  delay. 
I  must  be  sent,"  he  wrote  frankly  and  frantically. 

Slingsby  set  his  teeth  with  a  grim  satisfaction. 

"No,  my  friend,  you  shall  stay  while  the  danger 
lasts.  If  it's  a  year,  if  you  are  alone  in  the  camp,  still 
you  shall  stay.  The  horrors  you  have  planned  you 
shall  share  with  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the 
town." 

We  were  in  this  horrible  and  strange  predicament. 
The  whole  colony  was  menaced,  and  from  the  Lines 
to  Europa  Point  only  two  men  knew  of  the  peril. 
Of  those  two,  one,  in  an  office  down  by  the  harbour, 
ceaselessly  and  vainly,  with  a  dreadful  anxiety,  asked 
"When?"  The  other,  the  prisoner,  knew  the  very 
hour  and  minute  of  the  catastrophe,  and  waited  for  it 
with  the  sinking  fear  of  a  criminal  awaiting  the  fixed 
moment  of  his  execution. 

Thus  another  week  passed. 

Slingsby  became  a  thing  of  broken  nerves.  If  you 
shut  the  door  noisily  he  cursed;  if  you  came  in  noise- 
lessly he  cursed  yet  louder,  and  one  evening  he  reached 
the  stage  when  the  sunset  gun  made  him  jump. 

"That's  enough,"  I  said  sternly.  "To-day  is  Satur- 
day. To-morrow  we  borrow  the  car" — there  is  only 
one  worth  talking  about  on  the  Rock — "and  we  drive 
out." 

318 


PEIFFER 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  cried. 

I  continued: 

"We  will  lunch  somewhere  by  the  road,  and  we 
will  go  on  to  the  country  house  of  the  Claytons, 
who  will  give  us  tea.  Then  in  the  afternoon  we  will 
return." 

Slingsby  hesitated.  It  is  curious  to  remember  on 
how  small  a  matter  so  much  depended.  I  believe  he 
would  have  refused,  but  at  that  moment  the  sunset 
gun  went  off  and  he  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"Yes,  I  am  fairly  rocky,"  he  admitted.  " I  will  take 
a  day  off." 

I  borrowed  the  car,  and  we  set  off  and  lunched  ac- 
cording to  our  programme.  It  was  perhaps  half  an 
hour  afterwards  when  we  were  going  slowly  over  a 
remarkably  bad  road.  A  powerful  car,  driven  at  a 
furious  pace,  rushed  round  a  corner  towards  us,  swayed, 
lurched,  and  swept  past  us  with  a  couple  of  inches  to 
spare,  whilst  a  young  man  seated  at  the  wheel  shouted 
a  greeting  and  waved  his  hand. 

"  Who  the  dickens  was  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I  know,"  replied  Slingsby.  "It's  Morano.  He's 
a  count,  and  will  be  a  marquis  and  no  end  of  a  swell 
if  he  doesn't  get  killed  motoring.  Which,  after  all, 
seems  likely." 

I  thought  no  more  of  the  man  until  his  name  cropped 
up  whilst  we  were  sitting  at  tea  on  the  Claytons' 
veranda. 

319 


PEIFFER 

"We  passed  Morano,"  said  Slingsby.  And  Mrs. 
Clayton  said  with  some  pride — she  was  a  pretty, 
kindly  woman,  but  she  rather  affected  the  Spanish 
nobility: 

"He  lunched  with  us  to-day.  You  know  he  is  stay- 
ing in  Gibraltar." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Slingsby.  "  For  I  met  him 
a  little  time  ago.  He  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  a 
good  Government  launch  for  sale." 

Mrs.  Clayton  raised  her  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"A  launch?  Surely  you  are  wrong.  He  is  devoting 
himself  to  aviation." 

"Is  he?"  said  Slingsby,  and  a  curious  look  flickered 
for  a  moment  over  his  face. 

We  left  the  house  half  an  hour  afterwards,  and  as 
soon  as  we  were  out  of  sight  of  it  Slingsby  opened  his 
hand.  He  was  holding  a  visiting  card. 

"I  stole  this  off  the  hall  table,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Clayton  will  never  forgive  me.  Just  look  at  it." 

His  face  had  become  extraordinarily  grave.  The 
card  was  Morano's,  and  it  was  engraved  after  the  Span- 
ish custom.  In  Spain,  when  a  woman  marries  she 
does  not  lose  her  name.  She  may  be  in  appearance 
more  subject  to  her  husband  than  the  women  of  other 
countries,  though  you  will  find  many  good  judges  to 
tell  you  that  women  rule  Spain.  In  any  case  her  name 
is  not  lost  in  that  of  her  husband;  the  children  will 
bear  it  as  well  as  their  father's,  and  will  have  it  printed 

320 


PEIFFER 

on  their  cards.  Thus,  Mr.  Jones  will  call  on  you, 
but  on  the  card  he  leaves  he  will  be  styled: 

MR.  JONES  AND  ROBINSON, 

if  Robinson  happens  to  be  his  mother's  name,  and  if 
you  are  scrupulous  in  your  etiquette  you  will  so  address 
him. 

Now,  on  the  card  which  Slingsby  had  stolen,  the 
Count  Morano  was  described: 

MORANO  Y  GOLTZ 

"I  see,"  I  replied.  "Morano  had  a  German 
mother." 

I  was  interested.  There  might  be  nothing  in  it,  of 
course.  A  noble  of  Spain  might  have  a  German  mother 
and  still  not  intrigue  for  the  Germans  against  the 
owners  of  Gibraltar.  But  no  sane  man  would  take  a 
bet  about  it. 

"The  point  is,"  said  Slingsby,  "I  am  pretty  sure  that 
is  not  the  card  which  he  sent  in  to  me  when  he  came  to 
ask  about  a  launch.  We  will  go  straight  to  the  office 
and  make  sure." 

By  the  time  we  got  there  we  were  both  somewhat 
excited,  and  we  searched  feverishly  in  the  drawers  of 
Slingsby's  writing-table. 

"I  shouldn't  be  such  an  ass  as  to  throw  it  away,"  he 
said,  turning  over  his  letters.  "No!  Here  it  is!" 
and  a  sharp  exclamation  burst  from  his  lips. 

321 


PEIFFER 

"Look!" 

He  laid  the  card  he  had  stolen  side  by  side  with  the 
card  which  he  had  just  found,  and  between  the  two 
there  was  a  difference — to  both  of  us  a  veritable  world 
of  difference.  For  from  the  second  card  the  "  y  Goltz," 
the  evidence  that  Morano  was  half-German,  had  dis- 
appeared. 

"And  it's  not  engraved,"  said  Slingsby,  bending  down 
over  the  table.  "It's  just  printed — printed  in  order  to 
mislead  us." 

Slingsby  sat  down  in  his  chair.  A  great  hope  was 
bringing  the  life  back  to  his  tired  face,  but  he  would 
not  give  the  reins  to  his  hope. 

"Let  us  go  slow,"  he  said,  warned  by  the  experience 
of  a  hundred  disappointments.  "Let  us  see  how  it 
works  out.  Morano  comes  to  Gibraltar  and  makes  a 
prolonged  stay  in  a  hotel.  Not  being  a  fool,  he  is  aware 
that  I  know  who  is  in  Gibraltar  and  who  is  not.  There- 
fore he  visits  me  with  a  plausible  excuse  for  being  in 
Gibraltar.  But  he  takes  the  precaution  to  have  this 
card  specially  printed.  Why,  if  he  is  playing  straight  ? 
He  pretends  he  wants  a  launch,  but  he  is  really  devot- 
ing himself  to  aviation.  Is  it  possible  that  the  Count 
Morano,  not  forgetting  Goltz,  knows  exactly  how  the 
good  Peiffer  spent  the  six  hours  we  can't  account  for, 
and  what  his  little  plan  is  ?  " 

I  sprang  up.  It  did  seem  that  Slingsby  was  getting 
at  last  to  the  heart  of  Peiffer's  secret. 

322 


PEIFFER 

"We  will  now  take  steps,"  said  Slingsby,  and  tele- 
grams began  to  fly  over  the  wires.  In  three  days' 
time  the  answers  trickled  in. 

An  agent  of  Morano's  had  bought  a  German  aero- 
plane in  Lisbon.  A  German  aviator  was  actually  at 
the  hotel  there.  Slingsby  struck  the  table  with  his 
fist. 

"What  a  fool  I  am !"  he  cried.  "Give  me  a  news- 
paper." 

I  handed  him  one  of  that  morning's  date.  Slingsby 
turned  it  feverishly  over,  searching  down  the  columns 
of  the  provincial  news  until  he  came  to  the  heading 
"Portugal." 

"Here  it  is!"  he  cried,  and  he  read  aloud.  "'The 
great  feature  of  the  Festival  week  this  year  will  be,  of 
course,  the  aviation  race  from  Villa  Real  to  Seville. 
Amongst  those  who  have  entered  machines  is  the  Count 
Morano  y  Goltz.'" 

He  leaned  back  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"We  have  got  it!  Morano's  machine,  driven  by 
the  German  aviator,  rises  from  the  aerodrome  at  Villa 
Real  in  Portugal  with  the  others,  heads  for  Seville, 
drops  behind,  turns  and  makes  a  bee-line  for  the  Rock, 
Peiffer  having  already  arranged  with  Morano  for 
signals  to  be  made  where  bombs  should  be  dropped. 
When  is  the  race  to  be?" 

I  took  the  newspaper. 

"Ten  days  from  now." 

323 


PEIFFER 

"Good!" 

Once  more  the  telegrams  began  to  fly.  A  week  later 
Slingsby  told  me  the  result. 

"Owing  to  unforeseen  difficulties,  the  Festival  com- 
mittee at  Villa  Real  has  reorganised  its  arrangements, 
and  there  will  be  no  aviation  race.  Oh,  they'll  do 
what  they  like  hi  neutral  countries,  will  they?  But 
Peiffer  shan't  know,"  he  added,  with  a  grin.  "  Peiffer 
shall  eat  of  his  own  frightfulness." 


324 


THE  EBONY  BOX 


THE  EBONY  BOX 

"No,  no,"  said  Colonel  von  Altrock,  abruptly.  "It 
is  not  always  true." 

The  conversation  died  away  at  once,  and  everyone 
about  that  dinner  table  in  the  Rue  St.  Florentin  looked 
at  him  expectantly.  He  played  nervously  with  the 
stem  of  his  wineglass  for  a  few  moments,  as  though  the 
complete  silence  distressed  him.  Then  he  resumed 
with  a  more  diffident  air: 

"War  no  doubt  inspires  noble  actions  and  brings 
out  great  qualities  in  men  from  whom  you  expected 
nothing.  But  there  is  another  side  to  it  which  becomes 
apparent,  not  at  once,  but  after  a  few  months  of  cam- 
paigning. Your  nerves  get  over-strained,  fatigue 
and  danger  tell  their  tale.  You  lose  your  manners, 
sometimes  you  degenerate  into  a  brute.  I  happen 
to  know.  Thirty  years  have  passed  since  the  siege  of 
Paris,  yet  even  to-day  there  is  no  part  of  my  life  which 
I  regret  so  much  as  the  hours  between  eleven  and 
twelve  o'clock  of  Christmas  night  in  the  year  'Seventy. 
I  will  tell  you  about  it  if  you  like,  although  the  story 
may  make  us  late  for  the  opera." 

The  opera  to  be  played  that  evening  was  "Faust," 
which  most  had  heard,  and  the  rest  could  hear  when 
they  would.  On  the  other  hand  Colonel  von  Altrock 
was  habitually  a  silent  man.  The  offer  which  he  made 

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now  he  was  not  likely  to  repeat.  It  was  due,  as  his 
companions  understood,  to  the  accident  that  this  night 
was  the  first  which  he  had  spent  in  Paris  since  the  days 
of  the  great  siege. 

"It  will  not  matter  if  we  are  a  little  late,"  said  his 
hostess,  the  Baroness  Hammerstein,  and  her  guests 
agreed  with  her. 

"  It  is  permitted  to  smoke  ?  "  asked  the  Colonel.  For 
a  moment  the  flame  of  a  match  lit  up  and  exaggerated 
the  hollows  and  the  lines  upon  his  lean,  rugged  face. 
Then,  drawing  his  chair  to  the  table,  he  told  his  story. 

I  was  a  lieutenant  of  the  fifth  company  of  the  second 
battalion  of  the  103rd  Regiment,  which  belonged  to 
the  23rd  Infantry  Division.  It  is  as  well  to  be  exact. 
That  division  was  part  of  the  12th  Army  Corps  under 
the  Crown  Prince  of  Saxony,  and  in  the  month  of  De- 
cember formed  the  south-eastern  segment  of  our  circle 
about  Paris.  On  Christmas  night  I  happened  to  be  on 
duty  at  a  forepost  in  advance  of  Noisy-le-Grand.  The 
centrigrade  thermometer  was  down  to  twelve  degrees 
below  zero,  and  our  little  wooden  hut  with  the  sloping 
roof,  which  served  us  at  once  as  kitchen,  mess-room, 
and  dormitory,  seemed  to  us  all  a  comfortable  shelter. 
Outside  its  door  the  country  glimmered  away  into  dark- 
ness, a  white  silent  plain  of  snow.  Inside,  the  camp- 
bedsteads  were  neatly  ranged  along  the  wall  where  the 
roof  was  lowest.  A  long  table  covered  with  a  white 

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cloth — for  we  were  luxurious  on  Christmas  night — 
occupied  the  middle  of  the  floor.  A  huge  fire  blazed 
up  the  chimney,  chairs  of  any  style,  from  a  Louis 
Quatorze  fauteuil  borrowed  from  the  salon  of  a  chateau 
to  the  wooden  bench  of  a  farm-house,  were  placed 
about  the  table,  and  in  a  corner  stood  a  fine  big  barrel 
of  Bavarian  beer  which  had  arrived  that  morning  as 
a  Christmas  present  from  my  mother  at  Leipzig. 
We  were  none  of  us  anxious  to  turn  out  into  the  bitter 
cold,  I  can  tell  you.  But  we  were  not  colonels  in  those 
days,  and  while  the  Hauptmann  was  proposing  my 
mother's  health  the  door  was  thrust  open  and  an  orderly 
muffled  up  to  the  eyes  stood  on  the  threshold  at  the 
salute. 

"The  Herr  Oberst  wishes  to  see  the  Herr  Lieutenant 
von  Altrock,"  said  he,  and  before  I  had  time  even  to 
grumble  he  turned  on  his  heels  and  marched  away. 

I  took  down  my  great-coat,  drew  the  cape  over  my 
head,  and  went  out  of  the  hut.  There  was  no  wind, 
nor  was  the  snow  falling,  but  the  cold  was  terrible, 
and  to  me  who  had  come  straight  from  the  noise  of 
my  companions  the  night  seemed  unnaturally  still.  I 
plodded  away  through  the  darkness.  Behind  me  in 
the  hut  the  Hauptmann  struck  up  a  song,  and  the  words 
came  to  me  quite  clearly  and  very  plaintively  across  the 
snow: 

Ich  hatte  einen  Kamaraden 
Einen  besseren  findest  du  nicht. 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

I  wondered  whether  in  the  morning,  like  that  com- 
rade, I  should  be  a  man  to  be  mentioned  in  the  past 
tense.  For  more  than  once  a  sentinel  had  been  found 
frozen  dead  at  his  post,  and  I  foresaw  a  long  night's 
work  before  me.  My  Colonel  had  acquired  a  habit  of 
choosing  me  for  special  services,  and  indeed  to  his  kind- 
ness in  this  respect  I  owed  my  commission.  For  you 
must  understand  that  I  was  a  student  at  Heidelberg 
when  the  newsboys  came  running  down  the  streets  one 
evening  in  July  with  the  telegram  that  M.  Benedetti 
had  left  Ems.  I  joined  the  army  as  a  volunteer,  and 
I  fought  in  the  ranks  at  Gravelotte.  However,  I  felt 
no  gratitude  to  my  Colonel  that  Christmas  night  as  I 
tramped  up  the  slope  of  Noisy-le-Grand  to  the  chateau 
where  he  had  his  quarters. 

I  found  him  sitting  at  a  little  table  drawn  close  to 
the  fire  in  a  bare,  dimly-lighted  room.  A  lamp  stood 
on  the  table,  and  he  was  peering  at  a  crumpled  scrap 
of  paper  and  smoothing  out  its  creases.  So  engrossed 
was  he,  indeed,  in  his  scrutiny  that  it  was  some  min- 
utes before  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  me  waiting  for 
his  commands. 

"Lieutenant  von  Altrock,"  he  said,  "you  must  ride 
to  Raincy." 

Raincy  was  only  five  miles  distant,  as  the  crow  flies. 
Yes,  but  the  French  had  made  a  sortie  on  the  21st, 
they  had  pushed  back  our  lines,  and  they  now  held  Ville 
Evrart  and  Maison  Blanche  between  Raincy  and  Noisy- 

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le-Grand.  I  should  have  to  make  a  circuit;  my  five 
miles  became  ten.  I  did  not  like  the  prospect  at  all. 
I  liked  it  still  less  when  the  Colonel  added: 

"You  must  be  careful.  More  than  one  German 
soldier  has  of  late  been  killed  upon  that  road.  There 
are  francs-tireurs  about,  and  you  must  reach  Raincy." 

It  was  a  verbal  message  which  he  gave  me,  and  I  was 
to  deliver  it  in  person  to  the  commandant  of  the  battery 
at  Raincy.  It  bore  its  fruit  upon  the  27th,  when  the 
cross-fire  from  Raincy  and  Noisy-le-Grand  destroyed 
the  new  French  fort  upon  Mount  Avron  in  a  snow- 
storm. 

"There  is  a  horse  ready  for  you  at  the  stables," 
said  the  Colonel,  and  with  a  nod  he  turned  again  to 
his  scrap  of  paper.  I  saluted  and  walked  to  the  door. 
As  my  hand  was  on  the  knob  he  called  me  back. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  he  asked,  holding  the 
paper  out  to  me.  "It  was  picked  out  of  the  Marne 
in  a  sealed  wine-bottle." 

I  took  the  paper,  and  saw  that  a  single  sentence 
was  written  upon  it  in  a  round  and  laborious  hand  with 
the  words  mis-spelt.  The  meaning  of  the  sentence 
seemed  simple  enough.  It  was  apparently  a  message 
from  a  M.  Bonnet  to  his  son  in  the  Mobiles  at  Paris, 
and  it  stated  that  the  big  black  sow  had  had  a  litter  of 
fifteen. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  repeated  the  Colo- 
nel. 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

"Why,  that  M.  Bonnet's  black  sow  has  farrowed 
fifteen,"  said  I. 

I  handed  the  paper  back.  The  Colonel  looked  at  it 
again,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed. 

"Well,  after  all,  perhaps  it  does  mean  no  more  than 
that,"  said  he. 

But  for  the  Colonel's  suspicions  I  should  not  have 
given  another  thought  to  that  mis-spelt  scrawl.  M. 
Bonnet  was  probably  some  little  farmer  engrossed  in 
his  pigs  and  cows,  who  thought  that  no  message  could 
be  more  consoling  to  his  son  locked  up  in  Paris 
than  this  great  news  about  the  black  sow.  The 
Colonel's  anxiety,  however,  fixed  it  for  awhile  in  my 
mind. 

The  wildest  rumours  were  flying  about  our  camp  at 
that  tune,  as  I  think  will  always  happen  when  you  have 
a  large  body  of  men  living  under  a  great  strain  of 
cold  and  privation  and  peril.  They  perplexed  the  sea- 
soned officers  and  they  were  readily  swallowed  by  the 
youngsters,  of  whom  I  was  one.  Now,  this  scrap  of 
paper  happened  to  fit  in  with  the  rumour  which  most 
of  all  exercised  our  imaginations. 

It  was  known  that  in  spite  of  all  our  precautions 
news  was  continually  leaking  into  Paris  which  we  did 
not  think  it  good  for  the  Parisians  to  have.  What  we 
did  think  good  for  them — information,  for  instance,  of 
the  defeat  of  the  Army  of  the  Loire — we  ourselves  sent 
in  without  delay.  But  wre  ascertained  from  our  pris- 

332 


THE  EBONY  BOX 

oners  that  Paris  was  enlightened  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  upon  other  matters  which  we  wished  to  keep 
to  ourselves.  On  that  very  Christmas  Day  they  al- 
ready knew  that  General  Faidherbe,  at  Pont  Noyelles, 
had  repulsed  a  portion  of  our  first  army  under  General 
Manteuffel.  How  did  they  know?  We  were  not  sat- 
isfied that  pigeons  and  balloons  completely  explained 
the  mystery.  No,  we  believed  that  the  news  passed 
somewhere  through  our  lines  on  the  south-east  of 
Paris.  There  was  supposed  to  exist  a  regular  system 
like  the  underground  road  in  the  Southern  States  of 
America  during  the  slavery  days.  There  the  escaped 
slave  was  quickly  and  secretly  passed  on  from  ap- 
pointed house  to  appointed  house,  until  he  reached 
freedom.  Here  it  was  news  in  cipher  which  was  passed 
on  and  on  to  a  house  close  to  our  lines,  whence,  as 
occasion  served,  it  was  carried  into  Paris. 

That  was  the  rumour.  There  may  have  been  truth 
in  it,  or  it  may  have  been  entirely  false.  But,  at  all 
events,  it  had  just  the  necessary  element  of  fancy  to 
appeal  to  the  imagination  of  a  very  young  man,  and  as 
I  walked  to  the  stables  and  mounted  the  horse  which 
the  Colonel  had  lent  me,  I  kept  wondering  whether  this 
message,  so  simple  in  appearance,  had  travelled  along 
that  underground  road  and  was  covering  its  last  stage 
between  the  undiscovered  chateau  and  Paris  in  the 
sealed  wine-bottle.  I  tried  to  make  out  what  the 
black  sow  stood  for  in  the  cipher,  and  whose  identity 

333 


THE  EBONY  BOX 

was  concealed  under  the  pseudonym  of  M.  Bonnet. 
So  I  rode  down  the  slope  of  Noisy-le-Grand. 

But  at  the  bottom  of  the  slope  these  speculations 
passed  entirely  from  my  mind.  In  front,  hidden  away 
in  the  darkness,  lay  the  dangers  of  Ville  Evrart  and 
Maison  Blanche.  German  soldiers  had  ridden  along 
this  path  and  had  not  returned ;  the  francs-tireurs  were 
abroad.  Yet  I  must  reach  Raincy.  Moreover,  in  my 
own  mind,  I  was  equally  convinced  that  I  must  re- 
turn. I  saw  the  little  beds  against  the  wall  of  the 
hut  under  the  sloping  roof.  I  rode  warily,  determined 
to  sleep  in  one  of  them  that  night,  determined  to  keep 
my  life  if  it  could  be  kept.  I  believe  I  should  have 
pistolled  my  dearest  friend  without  a  tinge  of  remorse 
had  he  tried  to  delay  me  for  a  second.  Three  months 
of  campaigning,  in  a  word,  had  told  their  tale. 

I  crossed  the  Marne  and  turned  off  the  road  into  a 
forest  path.  Ville  Evrart  with  its  French  garrison  lay 
now  upon  my  left  behind  the  screen  of  trees.  Fortu- 
nately there  was  no  moon  that  night,  and  a  mist  hung 
in  the  air.  The  snow,  too,  deadened  the  sound  of 
my  horse's  hoofs.  But  I  rode,  nevertheless,  very 
gently  and  with  every  sense  alert.  Each  moment  I 
expected  the  challenge  of  a  sentinel  in  French.  From 
any  of  the  bushes  which  I  passed  I  might  suddenly  see 
the  spurt  of  flame  from  a  franc-tireur's  chassepot.  If 
a  twig  snapped  in  the  frost  at  my  side  I  was  very 
sure  the  foot  of  an  enemy  was  treading  there. 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

I  came  to  the  end  of  the  wood  and  rode  on  to  Ches- 
nay.  Here  the  country  was  more  open,  and  I  had 
passed  Ville  Evrart.  But  I  did  not  feel  any  greater 
security.  I  was  possessed  with  a  sort  of  rage  to  get 
my  business  done  and  live — yes,  at  all  costs  live.  A 
mile  beyond  Chesnay  I  came  to  cross-roads,  and 
within  the  angle  which  the  two  roads  made  a  little 
cabin  stood  upon  a  plot  of  grass.  I  was  in  doubt 
which  road  to  take.  The  cabin  was  all  dark,  and  rid- 
ing up  to  the  door  I  hammered  upon  it  with  the  butt 
of  my  pistol.  It  was  not  immediately  opened.  There 
must  indeed  have  been  some  delay,  since  the  inmates 
were  evidently  in  bed.  But  I  was  not  in  any  mood 
to  show  consideration.  I  wanted  to  get  on — to  get 
on  and  live.  A  little  window  was  within  my  reach.  I 
dashed  the  butt  of  the  pistol  violently  through  the  glass. 

"Will  that  waken  you,  eh?"  I  cried,  and  almost 
before  I  had  finished  I  heard  a  shuffling  footstep  in  the 
passage  and  the  door  was  opened.  A  poor  old  peasant- 
woman,  crippled  with  rheumatism,  stood  in  the  door- 
way shading  a  lighted  candle  with  a  gnarled,  trembling 
hand.  In  her  haste  to  obey  she  had  merely  thrown  a 
petticoat  over  the  shoulders  of  her  nightdress,  and  there 
she  stood  with  bare  feet,  shivering  in  the  cold,  an  old 
bent  woman  of  eighty,  and  apologised. 

"I  am  sorry,  monsieur,"  she  said,  meekly.  "But  I 
cannot  move  as  quickly  as  I  could  when  I  was  young. 
How  can  I  serve  monsieur?" 

335 


THE  EBONY  BOX 

Not  a  word  of  reproach  about  her  broken  window. 
You  would  think  that  the  hardest  man  must  have 
felt  some  remorse.  I  merely  broke  in  upon  her  apolo- 
gies with  a  rough  demand  for  information. 

"The  road  upon  your  right  leads  to  Chelles,  mon- 
sieur," she  answered.  "That  upon  your  left  to 
Raincy." 

I  rode  off  without  another  word.  It  is  not  a  pretty 
description  which  I  am  giving  to  you,  but  it  is  a  true 
one.  That  is  my  regret — it  is  a  true  one.  I  forgot 
the  old  peasant  woman  the  moment  I  had  passed  the 
cabin.  I  thought  only  of  the  long  avenues  of  trees 
which  stretched  across  that  flat  country,  and  which 
could  hide  whole  companies  of  francs-tireurs,  I 
strained  my  eyes  forwards.  I  listened  for  the  sound  of 
voices.  But  the  first  voice  which  I  heard  spoke  in 
my  own  tongue. 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  sentry  on  the  outposts  of  Raincy, 
and  I  could  have  climbed  down  from  my  saddle  and 
hugged  him  to  my  heart.  Instead,  I  sat  impassively 
in  my  saddle  and  gave  him  the  countersign.  I  was 
conducted  to  the  quarters  of  the  commandant  of 
artillery  and  I  delivered  my  message. 

"You  have  come  quickly,"  he  said.  "What  road 
did  you  take?" 

"That  of  Chesnay  and  Gagny." 

The  commandant  looked  queerly  at  me. 

"Did  you?"  said  he.  "You  are  lucky.  You  will 
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THE  EBONY  BOX 

return  by  Montfermeil  and  Chelles,  Lieutenant  von 
Altrock,  and  I  will  send  an  escort  with  you.  Ap- 
parently we  are  better  informed  at  Raincy  than  you 
are  at  Noisy-le-Grand." 

"I  knew  there  was  danger,  sir,"  I  replied. 

A  regiment  of  dragoons  was  quartered  at  Raincy, 
and  from  it  two  privates  and  a  corporal  were  given  me 
for  escort.  In  the  company  of  these  men  I  started 
back  by  the  longer  road  in  the  rear  of  our  lines.  And 
it  was  a  quarter  to  ten  when  I  started.  For  I  noticed 
the  time  of  a  clock  in  the  commandant's  quarters.  I 
should  think  that  it  must  have  taken  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  reach  Montfermeil,  for  the  snow  was 
deep  here  and  the  mist  very  thick.  Beyond  Mont- 
fermeil, however,  we  came  to  higher  ground;  there 
were  fewer  drifts  of  snow,  and  the  night  began  to  clear, 
so  that  we  made  better  going.  We  were  now,  of  course, 
behind  our  lines,  and  the  only  risk  we  ran  was  that  a 
few  peasants  armed  with  rifles  from  a  battlefield  or  a 
small  band  of  francs-tireurs  might  be  lurking  on  the 
chance  of  picking  off  a  straggler.  But  that  risk  was 
not  very  great  now  that  there  were  four  of  us.  I  rode 
therefore  with  an  easier  mind,  and  the  first  thing 
which  entered  my  thoughts  was — what  do  you  think? 
The  old  peasant-woman's  cabin  with  the  broken  win- 
dow? Not  a  bit  of  it.  No,  it  was  M.  Bonnet's 
black  sow.  Had  M.  Bonnet's  sow  farrowed  fifteen? 
Or  was  that  litter  of  fifteen  intended  to  inform  the 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

people  In  Paris  by  some  system  of  multiplication  of 
the  exact  number  of  recruits  which  had  joined  one  of 
the  French  armies  still  in  the  field — say,  General  Faid- 
herbe's,  at  Bapaume,  and  so  to  keep  up  their  spirits 
and  prolong  the  siege?  I  was  still  puzzling  over  this 
problem  when  in  a  most  solitary  place  I  came  suddenly 
upon  a  chateau  with  lighted  windows.  This  was  the 
Chdteau  Villetaneuse.  I  reined  in  my  horse  and 
stopped.  My  escort  halted  behind  me.  It  was  after 
all  an  astonishing  sight.  There  were  many  chateaux 
about  Paris  then,  as  there  are  now,  but  not  one  that 
I  had  ever  come  across  was  inhabited  by  more  than  a 
caretaker.  The  owners  had  long  since  fled.  Breached 
walls,  trampled  gardens,  gaping  roofs,  and  silence  and 
desertion — that  is  what  we  meant  when  we  spoke  of  a 
chateau  near  Paris  in  those  days.  But  here  was  one 
with  lighted  windows  on  the  first  and  second  storeys 
staring  out  calmly  on  the  snow  as  though  never  a 
Prussian  soldier  had  crossed  the  Rhine.  A  thick 
clump  of  trees  sheltered  it  behind,  and  it  faced  the 
eastern  side  of  the  long  ridge  of  Mont  Guichet,  along 
the  foot  of  which  I  rode — the  side  farthest  from  Paris. 
From  the  spot  where  I  and  my  escort  had  halted  an 
open  park  stretched  level  to  the  door.  The  house  had, 
no  doubt,  a  very  homelike  look  on  that  cold  night.  It 
should  have  spoken  to  me,  no  doubt,  of  the  well- 
ordered  family  life  and  the  gentle  occupations  of  women. 
But  I  was  thinking  of  M.  Bonnet's  black  sow.  I  was 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

certain  that  none  of  our  officers  were  quartered  there 
and  making  the  best  of  their  Christmas  night  in 
France.  Had  that  been  the  case,  black  paths  and  ruts 
would  have  been  trampled  in  the  snow  up  to  the  door, 
and  before  now  I  should  have  been  challenged  by  a 
sentinel.  No!  The  more  I  looked  at  the  house  and 
its  lighted  windows,  the  more  I  thought  of  M.  Bon- 
net's sow.  Was  this  solitary  chateau  the  undiscovered 
last  station  on  the  underground  road  through  which 
the  news  passed  into  Paris  ?  If  not,  why  was  it  still  in- 
habited ?  Why  did  the  lights  blaze  out  upon  the  snow 
so  late? 

I  commanded  my  escort  to  be  silent.  We  rode 
across  the  park,  and  half-way  to  the  door  we  came  upon 
a  wire  fence  and  a  gate.  There  we  dismounted,  and 
walked  our  horses.  We  tethered  them  to  a  tree  about 
twenty  yards  from  the  house.  I  ordered  one  of  my 
dragoons  to  go  round  the  house,  and  watch  any  door 
which  he  might  find  at  the  back.  I  told  the  other  two 
to  stay  where  they  were,  and  I  advanced  alone  to  the 
steps,  but  before  I  had  reached  them  the  front  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  a  girl  with  a  lantern  in  her 
hand  came  out. 

She  held  the  lantern  high  above  her  head  and  peered 
forward,  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon  her  hair,  her 
face,  and  dress.  She  was  a  tall  girl  and  slight  of 
figure,  with  big,  dark  eyes,  and  a  face  pretty  and  made 
for  laughter.  It  was  very  pale  now,  however,  and  the 

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THE  EBOXY  BOX 

brows  were  drawn  together  in  a  frown.  She  wore  a 
white  evening  frock,  which  glistened  in  the  lantern 
light,  and  over  her  bare  shoulders  she  had  flung  a 
heavy,  black,  military  cloak.  So  she  stood  and  swung 
the  lantern  slowly  from  side  to  side  as  she  stared  into 
the  darkness,  while  the  lights  and  shadows  chased 
each  other  swiftly  across  her  white  frock,  her  anxious 
face,  and  the  waves  of  her  fair  hair. 

"Whom  do  you  expect  at  this  hour,  mademoiselle?" 
I  asked. 

I  was  quite  close  to  her,  but  she  had  not  seen  me, 
for  I  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  and  she  was 
looking  out  over  my  head.  Yet  she  did  not  start  or 
utter  any  cry.  Only  the  lantern  rattled  in  her  hand. 
Then  she  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
afterwards  lowered  her  arm  until  the  light  shone  upon 
me. 

"You  are  Prussian?"  she  said. 

"A  lieutenant  of  foot,"  I  answered.  "You  have 
nothing  to  fear." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  she  replied,  quietly. 

"Yet  you  tremble,  mademoiselle.  Your  hand 
shakes." 

"That  is  the  cold,"  said  she. 

"Whom  did  you  expect?" 

"No  one,"  she  replied.  "I  thought  that  I  heard  the 
rattle  of  iron  as  though  a  horse  moved  and  a  stirrup 
rang.  It  is  lonely  here  since  our  neighbours  have 
fled.  I  came  out  to  see." 

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"The  lantern  then  was  not  a  signal,  mademoiselle?" 
I  asked. 

She  looked  at  me  in  perplexity,  and  certainly  the 
little  piece  of  acting,  I  thought,  was  very  well  done. 
Many  a  man  might  have  been  taken  in  by  it.  But  it 
was  thrown  away  upon  me,  for  I  had  noticed  that  heavy 
military  cloak.  How  did  it  come  to  lie  so  conveniently 
to  her  hand  in  the  hall? 

"  A  signal  ?  "  she  repeated.     "  To  whom  ?  " 

"To  some  man  hiding  in  the  woods  of  Mont  Guichet, 
a  signal  to  him  that  he  may  come  and  fetch  the  news 
for  Paris  that  has  lately — very  lately — been  brought  to 
the  house." 

She  bent  forward  and  peered  down  at  me,  drawing 
the  cloak  closer  about  her  neck. 

"You  are  under  some  strange  mistake,  monsieur," 
she  said.  "No  news  for  Paris  has  been  brought  to 
this  house  by  anyone." 

"Indeed?"  I  answered.  "And  is  that  so?"  Then 
I  stretched  out  my  hand  and  said  triumphantly: 
"You  will  tell  me  perhaps  that  the  cloak  upon  your 
shoulders  is  a  woman's  cloak?" 

And  she  laughed  !  It  was  humiliating;  it  is  always 
humiliating  to  a  young  man  not  to  be  taken  seriously, 
isn't — especially  if  he  is  a  conqueror?  There  was  I 
thinking  that  I  had  fairly  cross-examined  her  into  a 
trap,  and  she  laughed  indulgently.  Of  course,  a  girl 
always  claims  the  right  to  be  ever  so  much  older  than 
a  man  of  her  own  age,  but  she  stood  on  the  top  of 

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the  steps  and  laughed  down  at  me  as  though  she 
had  the  advantage  of  as  many  years  as  there  were 
steps  between  us.  And  she  explained  indulgently, 
too. 

"The  cloak  I  am  wearing  belongs  to  a  wounded 
French  officer  who  was  taken  prisoner  and  released 
upon  parole.  He  is  now  in  our  house." 

'Then  I  think  I  will  make  his  acquaintance,"  I  said, 
and  over  my  shoulder  I  called  to  the  corporal.  As  he 
advanced  to  my  side  a  look  of  alarm  came  into  the  girl's 
face. 

"You  are  not  alone,"  she  said,  and  suddenly  her 
face  became  wistful  and  her  voice  began  to  plead. 
"You  have  not  come  for  him?  He  has  done  no  harm. 
He  could  not,  even  if  he  would.  And  he  would  not, 
for  he  has  given  his  parole.  Oh,  you  are  not  going  to 
take  him  away?" 

"That  we  shall  see,  mademoiselle." 

I  left  one  dragoon  at  the  door.  I  ordered  the  cor- 
poral to  wait  in  the  hall,  and  I  followed  the  girl  up 
the  stairs  to  the  first  floor.  All  her  pride  had  gone; 
she  led  the  way  with  a  submission  of  manner  which 
seemed  to  me  only  a  fresh  effort  to  quiet  my  suspicions. 
But  they  were  not  quieted.  I  distrusted  her;  I  be- 
lieved that  I  had  under  my  fingers  the  proof  of  that 
rumour  which  flew  about  our  camp.  She  stopped  at  a 
door,  and  as  she  turned  the  handle  she  said: 

"This  is  my  own  parlour,  monsieur.  We  all  use  it 
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THE  EBONY  BOX 

now,  for  it  is  warmer  than  the  others,  and  all  our  ser- 
vants but  one  have  fled." 

It  was  a  pretty  room,  and  cheery  enough  to  a  young 
man  who  came  into  it  from  the  darkness  and  the  snow. 
A  piano  stood  open  in  a  corner  with  a  rug  thrown  upon 
it  to  protect  the  strings  from  the  cold;  books  lay 
upon  the  tables,  heavy  curtains  were  drawn  close  over 
the  windows,  there  were  cushioned  sofas  and  deep  arm- 
chairs, and  a  good  fire  of  logs  blazed  upon  the  hearth. 
These  details  I  took  in  at  once.  Then  I  looked  at  the 
occupants.  A  youth  lay  stretched  upon  a  sofa  close 
to  the  fire  with  a  wrap  covering  his  legs.  The  wrap 
was  raised  by  a  cradle  to  keep  off  its  weight.  His  face 
must  have  been,  I  think,  unusually  handsome  when  he 
had  his  health;  at  the  moment  it  was  so  worn  and  pale, 
and  the  eyes  were  so  sunk,  that  all  its  beauty  had  gone. 
The  pallor  was  accentuated  by  a  small  black  moustache 
he  wore  and  his  black  hair.  He  lay  with  his  head 
supported  upon  a  pillow,  and  was  playing  a  game  of 
chess  with  an  old  lady  who  sat  at  a  little  table  by  his 
side.  This  old  lady  was  actually  making  a  move  as  I 
entered  the  room,  for  as  she  turned  and  stared  at  me 
she  was  holding  a  chessman  in  her  hand.  I  advanced 
to  the  fire  and  warmed  my  hands  at  it. 

"You,  sir,  are  the  wounded  officer  on  parole?"  I 
said  in  French.  The  officer  bowed. 

"  .And  you,  madame  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  old  lady.  The 
sight  of  my  uniform  seemed  to  have  paralysed  her  with 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

terror.  She  sat  still  holding  the  chessman  in  her  hand, 
and  staring  at  me  with  her  mouth  half-open. 

"Come,  come,  madame,"  I  explained,  impatiently; 
"it  is  a  simple  question." 

"Monsieur,  you  frighten  her,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"It  is  my  aunt,  the  Baroness  Granville." 

"You  tell  me  nothing  of  yourself,"  I  said  to  her,  and 
she  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Since  you  have  come  with  an  escort  to  this  house 
I  imagined  you  must  know  to  whom  it  belonged.  I 
am  Sophie  de  Villetaneuse." 

"Exactly,"  I  replied,  as  though  I  had  known  all 
along,  and  had  merely  asked  the  question  to  see  whether 
she  would  speak  the  truth.  "Now,  mademoiselle,  will 
you  please  explain  to  me  how  it  is  that  while  your 
neighbours  have  fled  you  remain  at  your  chateau?" 

"It  is  quite  simple,"  she  answered.  "My  mother  is 
bedridden.  She  could  not  be  moved.  She  could  not 
be  left  alone." 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  said  I,  "if  I  test  the  state- 
ment." 

The  wounded  officer  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow 
as  though  to  protest,  but  Mademoiselle  de  Villetaneuse 
put  out  a  hand  and  checked  him.  She  showed 
me  a  face  flushed  with  anger,  but  she  spoke  quite 
quietly. 

"I  will  myself  take  you  to  my  mother's  room." 

I  laughed.  I  said:  "That  is  just  what  I  expected. 
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THE  EBONY  BOX 

You  will  take  me  to  your  mother's  room  and  leave 
your  friends  here  to  make  any  little  preparations  in 
the  way  of  burning  awkward  letters  which  they  may 
think  desirable.  Thank  you,  no !  I  am  not  so  easily 
caught." 

Mademoiselle  Sophie  was  becoming  irritated. 

"There. are  no  awkward  letters!"  she  exclaimed. 

"That  statement,  too,  I  shall  put  to  the  test." 

I  went  to  the  door,  and  standing  so  that  I  could  still 
keep  an  eye  upon  the  room,  I  called  the  corporal. 

"You  will  search  the  house  thoroughly,"  I  said, 
"and  quickly.  Bring  me  word  how  many  people  you 
find  in  it.  You,  mademoiselle,  will  remain  in  the  room 
with  us." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  I  closed  the  door  and 
came  back  into  the  room. 

"You  were  wounded,  monsieur,"  I  said  to  the  French- 
man. "Where?" 

"In  the  sortie  on  Le  Bourget." 

"And  you  came  here  the  moment  you  were  released 
on  your  parole  ?  " 

The  wounded  officer  turned  with  a  smile  to  Made- 
moiselle Sophie. 

"Yes,  for  here  live  my  best  friends." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  with  a  Frenchman's  grace  he 
raised  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  And  I  was  suddenly 
made  acquainted  with  the  relationship  in  which  these 
two,  youth  and  maid,  stood  to  one  another.  Made- 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

moiselle  Sophie  had  cried  out  on  the  steps  against  the 
possibility  that  I  might  have  come  to  claim  my  pris- 
oner. But  though  she  spoke  no  word,  she  was  still 
more  explicit  now.  With  the  officer  that  caress  was 
plainly  no  more  than  a  pretty  way  of  saying  thanks; 
it  had  the  look  of  a  habit,  it  was  so  neatly  given,  and 
he  gave  it  without  carelessness,  it  is  true,  but  without 
warmth.  She,  however,  received  it  very  differently. 
He  did  not  see,  because  his  head  was  bent  above  her 
hand,  but  I  did. 

I  saw  the  look  of  pain  in  her  face,  the  slight  contrac- 
tion of  her  shoulders  and  arms,  as  if  to  meet  a  blow. 
The  kiss  hurt  her — no,  not  the  kiss,  but  the  finished 
grace  with  which  it  w*as  given,  the  proof,  in  a  word,  that 
it  was  a  way  of  saying  "Thanks" — and  nothing  more. 
Here  was  a  woman  who  loved  and  a  man  who  did  not 
love,  and  the  woman  knew.  So  much  was  evident  to 
me  who  looked  on,  but  when  the  officer  raised  his  head 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  see,  and  upon  her  lips 
only  the  conventional  remark: 

"We  should  have  been  hurt  if  you  had  not  come." 

I  resumed  my  questions: 

"Your  doctor,  monsieur,  is  in  the  house?" 

"At  this  hour?    No." 

"Ah.    That  is  a  pity." 

The  young  man  lifted  his  head  from  his  pillow  and 
looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot  with  a  stare  of  dis- 
dain. 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

"I  do  not  quite  understand.  You  doubt  my  word, 
monsieur?" 

"Why  not?"  I  asked  sharply. 

It  was  quite  possible  that  the  cradle,  this  rug  across 
his  legs,  the  pillow,  were  all  pretences.  Many  a  soldier 
in  those  days  was  pale  and  worn  and  had  sunken  eyes, 
and  yet  was  sound  of  limb  and  could  do  a  day's  work 
of  twenty-four  hours  if  there  were  need.  I  had  my 
theory  and  as  yet  I  had  come  upon  nothing  to  disprove 
it.  This  young  officer  might  very  well  have  brought  in 
a  cipher  message  to  the  Chateau  Villetaneuse.  Made- 
moiselle Sophie  might  very  well  have  waved  her  lan- 
tern at  the  door  to  summon  a  fresh  messenger. 

"No;  why  should  I  not  doubt  your  word?"  I  re- 
peated. 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  old  lady.  "It  is  your 
move,  Baronne,"  he  said,  and  she  placed  the  piece  she 
held  upon  a  square  of  the  board.  Mademoiselle  Sophie 
took  her  stand  by  the  table  between  the  players,  and 
the  game  went  on  just  as  though  there  were  no  intruder 
in  the  room.  It  was  uncomfortable  for  me.  I  shifted 
my  feet.  I  tried  to  appear  at  my  ease;  finally  I  sat 
down  in  a  chair.  They  took  no  notice  of  me  what- 
ever. But  that  I  felt  hot  upon  a  discovery,  but  that 
I  knew  if  I  could  bring  back  to  Noisy-le-Grand  proof 
of  where  the  leakage  through  our  lines  occurred,  I 
should  earn  approval  and  perhaps  promotion,  I  should 
very  deeply  have  regretted  my  entrance  into  the 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

Chateau  Villetaneuse.  And  I  was  extremely  glad 
when  at  last  the  corporal  opened  the  door.  He  had 
searched  the  house — he  had  found  no  one  but  Madame 
de  Villetaneuse  and  an  old  servant  who  was  watching 
by  her  bed. 

"Very  well,"  said  I,  and  the  corporal  returned  to  the 
hall. 

Mademoiselle  Sophie  moved  away  from  the  chess- 
table.  She  came  and  stood  opposite  to  me,  and  though 
her  face  was  still,  her  eyes  were  hard  with  anger. 

"And  now  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  to  what  I  owe 
your  visit?"  she  said. 

"Certainly,"  I  returned.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  her, 
and  I  said  slowly,  "  I  have  come  to  ask  for  more  news 
of  M.  Bonnet's  black  sow." 

Mademoiselle  Sophie  stared  as  if  she  were  not  sure 
whether  I  was  mad  or  drunk,  but  was  very  sure  I  was 
one  or  the  other.  The  young  Frenchman  started  upon 
his  couch,  with  the  veins  swelling  upon  his  forehead  and 
a  flushed  face. 

"This  is  an  insult,"  he  cried  savagely,  and  no  less 
savagely  I  answered  him. 

"  Hold  your  tongue ! "  I  cried.  "  You  forget  too  often 
that  though  you  are  on  parole  you  are  still  a  prisoner." 

He  fell  back  upon  the  sofa  with  a  groan  of  pain,  and 
the  girl  hurried  to  his  side. 

"  Your  leg  hurts  you.  You  should  not  have  moved," 
she  cried. 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  faintly. 

Meanwhile  I  had  been  looking  about  the  room  for  a 
box  or  a  case  where  the  cipher  messages  might  be  hid. 
I  saw  nothing  of  the  kind.  Of  course  they  might  be 
hidden  between  the  pages  of  a  book.  I  went  from 
table  to  table,  taking  them  by  the  boards  and  shaking 
the  leaves.  Not  a  scrap  of  paper  tumbled  out.  There 
was  another  door  in  the  room  besides  that  which  led  on 
to  the  landing. 

"Mademoiselle,  what  room  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"My  bedroom,"  she  answered,  simply,  and  with  a 
gesture  full  of  dignity  she  threw  open  the  door. 

I  carried  the  mud  and  snow  and  the  grime  of  a 
camp  without  a  scruple  of  remorse  into  that  neat  and 
pretty  chamber.  Mademoiselle  Sophie  followed  me 
as  I  searched  wardrobe  and  drawer  and  box.  At  last 
I  came  to  one  drawer  in  her  dressing-table  which  was 
locked.  I  tried  the  handle  again  to  make  sure.  Yes, 
it  was  locked.  I  looked  suddenly  at  the  young  lady. 
She  was  watching  me  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes 
with  a  peculiar  intentness.  I  felt  at  once  that  I  was 
hot. 

"Open  that  drawer,  mademoiselle,"  I  said. 

"It  contains  only  some  private  things." 

"Open  that  drawer  or  I  burst  it  open." 

"No,"  she  cried,  as  I  jerked  the  handle.  "I  will 
open  it." 

She  fetched  the  key  out  of  another  drawer  which 
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THE  EBONY  BOX 

was  unlocked,  and  fitted  it  into  the  lock  of  the  dress- 
ing-table. And  all  the  while  I  saw  that  she  was  watch- 
ing me.  She  meant  to  play  me  some  trick,  I  was  cer- 
tain. So  I  watched  too,  and  I  did  well  to  watch. 
She  turned  the  key,  opened  the  drawer,  and  then 
snatched  out  something  with  extraordinary  rapidity 
and  ran  as  hard  as  she  could  to  the  door — not  the 
door  through  which  we  had  entered,  but  a  second  door 
which  gave  on  to  the  passage.  She  ran  very  fast  and 
she  ran  very  lightly,  and  she  did  not  stumble  over  a 
chair  as  I  did  in  pursuit  of  her.  But  she  had  to  un- 
latch the  door  and  pull  it  open.  I  caught  her  up  and 
closed  my  arms  about  her.  It  was  a  little,  carved, 
ebony  box  which  she  held,  the  very  thing  for  which  I 
searched. 

"I  thought  so,"  I  cried  with  a  laugh.  "Drop  the 
box,  mademoiselle.  Drop  it  on  the  floor ! " 

The  noise  of  our  struggle  had  been  heard  in  the 
next  room.  The  Baroness  rushed  through  the  door- 
way. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  cried.  "Mon  Dieu! 
you  are  killing  her!" 

"  Drop  the  box,  mademoiselle ! " 

And  as  I  spoke  she  threw  it  away.  She  threw  it 
through  the  doorway;  she  tried  to  throw  it  over  the 
banisters  of  the  stairs,  but  my  arms  were  about  hers, 
and  it  fell  into  the  passage  just  beyond  the  door.  I 
darted  from  her  and  picked  it  up.  When  I  returned 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

with  it  she  was  taking  a  gold  chain  from  her  neck.  At 
the  end  of  the  chain  hung  a  little  golden  key.  This 
she  held  out  to  me. 

"Open  it  here,"  she  said  in  a  low,  eager  voice. 

The  sudden  change  only  increased  my  suspicions, 
or  rather  my  conviction  that  I  had  now  the  proof 
which  I  needed.  A  minute  ago  she  was  trying  as  hard 
as  she  could  to  escape  with  the  box,  now  she  was  im- 
ploring me  to  open  it. 

"Why,  if  you  are  so  eager  to  show  me  the  contents, 
did  you  try  to  throw  it  away?"  I  asked. 

"I  tried  to  throw  it  down  into  the  hall,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"My  corporal  would  have  picked  it  up." 

"Oh,  what  would  that  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  im- 
patiently. "You  would  have  opened  it  in  the  hall. 
That  was  what  I  wanted.  Open  it  here!  At  all 
events  open  it  here ! " 

The  very  urgency  of  her  pleading  made  me  deter- 
mined to  refuse  the  plea. 

"No,  you  have  some  other  ruse,  mademoiselle," 
said  I.  "Perhaps  you  wish  to  gain  time  for  your 
friend  in  the  next  room.  No,  we  will  return  here  and 
open  it  comfortably  by  the  fire." 

I  kept  a  tight  hold  upon  the  box.  I  shook  it.  To 
my  delight  I  felt  that  there  were  papers  within  it.  I 
carried  it  back  to  the  fireside  and  sat  down  on  a  chair. 
Mademoiselle  Sophie  followed  me  close,  and  as  I  fixed 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

the  little  gold  key  into  the  lock  she  laid  her  hand  very 
gently  upon  my  arm. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  unlock  that  box,"  she  said;  "if 
you  do  you  will  bring  upon  me  a  great  humiliation  and 
upon  yourself  much  remorse.  There  is  nothing  there 
which  concerns  you.  There  are  just  my  little  secrets. 
A  girl  may  have  secrets,  monsieur,  which  are  sacred  to 
her." 

She  was  standing  quite  close  to  me,  and  her  back 
was  towards  the  French  officer  and  her  aunt.  They 
could  not  see  her  face  and  they  could  hardly  have  heard 
more  than  a  word  here  and  there  of  what  she  said. 
For  always  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  at  times  that 
low  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  so  that  I  myself  had  to 
watch  her  lips.  I  answered  her  only  by  turning  the 
key  in  the  lock.  She  took  her  hand  from  my  arm  and 
laid  it  on  the  lid  to  hinder  me  from  opening  it. 

"I  wore  the  key  on  a  chain  about  my  neck,  mon- 
sieur," she  whispered.  "  Does  that  teach  you  nothing  ? 
Even  though  you  are  young,  does  it  teach  you  nothing  ? 
I  said  that  if  you  unlocked  that  box  you  would  cause 
me  great  humiliation,  thinking  that  would  be  enough 
to  stop  you.  But  I  see  I  must  tell  you  more.  Read 
the  letters,  monsieur,  question  me  about  them,  and 
you  will  make  my  life  a  very  lonely  one.  I  think  so. 
I  think  you  will  destroy  my  chance  of  happiness.  You 
would  not  wish  that,  monsieur  ?  It  is  true  that  we  are 
enemies,  but  some  day  this  war  will  end,  and  you 

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THE  EBONY  BOX 

would  not  wish  to  prolong  its  sufferings  beyond  the 
end.  Yet  you  will  be  doing  that,  monsieur,  if  you 
open  that  box.  You  would  be  sorry  afterwards  when 
you  were  back  at  home  to  know  that  a  girl  in  France 
was  suffering  from  a  needless  act  of  yours.  Yes,  you 
will  be  sorry  if  you  open  that  box." 

It  seems  now  almost  impossible  to  me  that  I  could 
have  doubted  her  sincerity;  she  spoke  with  so  much 
simplicity,  and  so  desperate  an  appeal  looked  out  from 
her  dark  eyes.  Ever  since  that  Christmas  night  I  can 
see  her  quite  clearly  at  will,  standing  as  she  stood  then — 
all  the  sincerity  of  her  which  I  would  not  acknowledge, 
all  the  appeal  which  I  would  not  hear;  and  I  see  her 
many  times  when  for  my  peace  I  would  rather  not. 
Much  remorse,  she  said  very  wisely,  would  be  the  con- 
sequence for  me.  She  was  pleading  for  her  pride,  and 
to  do  that  the  better  she  laid  her  pride  aside;  yet  she 
never  lost  her  dignity.  She  was  pleading  for  her  chance 
of  happiness,  foreseeing  that  it  was  likely  to  be  de- 
stroyed, without  any  reason  or  any  profit  to  a  living 
being,  by  a  stranger  who  would  the  next  moment  pass 
out  of  her  life.  Yet  there  was  no  outcry,  and  there 
were  no  tears.  Had  it  been  a  trick — I  ask  the  ladies 
— would  there  not  have  been  tears  ? 

But  I  thought  it  was  a  trick  and  a  cheap  one.  She 
was  trying  to  make  me  believe  that  there  were  love- 
letters  in  the  box — compromising  love-letters.  Now, 
I  know  that  there  were  no  love-letters  in  the  box.  I 

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had  seen  the  Frenchman's  pretty  way  of  saying  thanks. 
I  had  noticed  how  the  caress  hurt  her  just  through 
what  it  lacked.  He  was  the  friend,  you  see,  and 
nothing  more;  she  was  the  lover  and  the  only  lover 
of  the  pair.  There  could  be  no  love-letters  in  the 
box  unless  she  had  written  them  herself  and  kept 
them.  But  I  did  not  think  she  was  the  girl  to  do  that. 
There  was  a  dignity  about  her  which  would  have 
stopped  her  pen. 

I  opened  the  box  accordingly.  Mademoiselle  Sophie 
turned  away  abruptly,  and  sitting  down  in  a  chair 
shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  I  emptied  the  letters 
out  on  to  a  table,  turning  the  box  upside  down,  and 
thus  the  first  which  I  took  up  and  read  was  the  one 
which  lay  at  the  very  bottom.  As  I  read  it  it  seemed 
that  every  suspicion  I  had  formed  was  established. 
She  had  hinted  at  love-letters,  she  had  spoken  of 
secrets  sacred  to  a  girl;  and  the  letter  was  not  even 
addressed  to  her.  It  was  addressed  to  Madame  de 
Villetaneuse;  it  was  a  letter  which,  if  it  meant  no 
more  than  what  was  implied  upon  the  surface,  would 
have  long  since  found  destruction  in  the  waste-paper 
basket.  For  it  purported  to  be  merely  the  acceptance 
of  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  the  town  house  of  Madame 
de  Villetaneuse  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  It  was 
signed  only  by  a  Christian  name,  "Armand,"  and 
the  few  sentences  which  composed  the  letter  explained 
that  M.  Armand  was  a  distant  kinsman  of  Madame 

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de  Villetaneuse  who  had  just  come  to  Paris  to  pursue 
his  studies,  and  who,  up  till  now,  had  no  acquaintance 
with  the  family. 

I  looked  at  Mademoiselle  Sophie  sternly.  "So  all 
this  pother  was  about  a  mere  invitation  to  dinner! 
Once  let  it  be  known  that  M.  Armand  will  dine  with 
Madame  de  Villetaneuse  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain, 
and  you  are  humiliated,  you  lose  your  chance  of  hap- 
piness, and  I,  too,  shall  find  myself  in  good  time  suffer- 
ing the  pangs  of  remorse,"  and  I  read  the  letter  slowly 
aloud  to  her,  word  by  word. 

She  returned  no  answer.  She  sat  with  her  hand 
shading  her  face,  and  she  rocked  her  head  backwards 
and  forwards  continually  and  rather  quickly,  like  a 
child  with  a  racking  headache.  Of  course,  to  my  mind 
all  that  was  part  of  the  game.  The  letter  was  dated 
two  years  back,  but  the  month  was  December,  and,  of 
course,  to  antedate  would  be  the  first  precaution. 

"Come,  mademoiselle,"  I  said,  changing  my  tone, 
"I  invite  you  very  seriously  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it.  I  wish  to  take  no  harsh  measures  with  you  if  I 
can  avoid  them.  Tell  me  frankly  what  news  this  letter 
plainly  translated  gives  to  General  Trochu  in  Paris." 

"None,"  she  answered. 

"Very  well,"  said  I,  and  I  took  up  the  next  letter. 
Ah,  M.  Armand  writes  again  a  week  later.  It  was  evi- 
dently a  good  dinner  and  M.  Armand  is  properly 
grateful. 

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The  gratitude,  indeed,  was  rather  excessive,  rather 
provincial.  It  was  just  the  effusion  which  a  young 
man  who  had  not  yet  learned  self-possession  might 
have  written  on  his  first  introduction  to  the  highest 
social  life  of  Paris.  Certainly  the  correspondence  was 
very  artfully  designed.  But  what  did  it  hide?  I 
puzzled  over  the  question;  I  took  the  words  and  the 
dates,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  began  to  see  light. 
So  much  stress  was  laid  upon  the  dinner,  that  the  word 
must  signify  some  event  of  importance.  The  first 
letter  spoke  of  a  dinner  in  the  future.  I  imagined  that 
it  had  not  been  possible  to  pass  this  warning  into  Paris. 
The  second  letter  mentioned  with  gratitude  that  the 
dinner  had  been  successful.  Well,  suppose  "dinner" 
stood  for  "engagement"!  The  letter  would  refer  to 
the  sortie  from  Paris  which  pushed  back  our  lines  and 
captured  Ville  Evrart  and  Maison  Blanche.  That 
seemed  likely.  Madame  de  Villetaneuse  gave  the 
dinner;  General  Trochu  made  the  sortie.  Then 
"Madame  de  Villetaneuse"  stood  for  "General 
Trochu."  Who  would  be  Armand  ?  Why,  the  French 
people  outside  Paris — the  provincials !  I  had  the 
explanation  of  that  provincial  expression  of  grati- 
tude. Ah,  no  doubt  it  all  seems  far-fetched  now  that 
we  sit  quietly  about  this  table.  But  put  yourselves 
in  the  thick  of  war  and  take  twenty  years  off  your 
lives !  Suppose  yourselves  young  and  green,  eager 
for  advancement,  and  just  off  your  balance  for  want 

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of  sleep,  want  of  food,  want  of  rest,  want  of  every- 
thing, and  brutal  from  the  facts  of  war.  There  are 
very  few  things  which  would  seem  far-fetched.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  deciphering  these  letters 
with  absolute  accuracy.  I  saw  myself  promoted  to 
captain,  seconded  to  the  General  Staff.  M.  Armand 
represented  the  French  people  in  the  provinces.  No 
doubt  they  would  be  grateful  for  that  sortie.  The 
only  point  which  troubled  me  arose  from  M.  Armand 's 
presence  at  that  dinner-party.  Now,  the  one  defect 
from  the  French  point  of  view  in  that  sortie  on  Ville 
Evrart  was  that  the  French  outside  Paris  did  not  come 
to  General  Trochu's  help.  They  were  expected,  but 
they  did  not  take  part  in  that  dinner-party. 

I  went  on  with  the  letters,  hoping  to  find  an  explana- 
tion there.  The  third  letter  was  addressed  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Villetaneuse,  who  had  evidently  written  to 
M.  Armand  on  behalf  of  her  mother,  inviting  him  to  her 
box  at  the  opera.  M.  Armand  regretted  that  he  had 
not  been  fortunate  enough  to  call  at  a  time  when 
mademoiselle  was  at  home,  and  would  look  forward 
to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  at  the  opera.  Was  that 
an  apology  ?  I  asked  myself.  An  apology  for  absence 
at  Ville  Evrart  and  a  pledge  to  be  present  at  the  next 
engagement ! 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  cried,  "what  does  the  opera 
stand  for?" 

Mademoiselle  Sophie  laughed  disdainfully. 
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"For  music,  monsieur,  for  art,  for  refinement,  for 
many  things  you  do  not  understand." 

I  sprang  up  in  excitement.  What  did  it  matter 
what  she  said?  M.  Armand  stood  for  the  Army  of 
the  Loire.  It  was  that  army  which  had  been  expected 
at  Ville  Evrart.  Here  was  a  pledge  that  it  would  be  re- 
formed, that  it  would  come  to  the  help  of  Paris  at  the 
next  sortie.  That  was  valuable  news — it  could  not  but 
bring  recognition  to  the  man  who  brought  evidence  of 
it  into  the  Prussian  lines.  I  hurriedly  read  through  the 
other  letters,  quoting  a  passage  here  and  there,  trying 
to  startle  Mademoiselle  de  Villetaneuse  into  a  confes- 
sion. But  she  never  changed  her  attitude,  she  did  not 
answer  a  word. 

Her  conduct  was  the  more  aggravating,  for  I  began 
to  get  lost  among  these  letters.  They  were  all  in  the 
same  handwriting;  they  were  all  signed  "Armand," 
and  they  seemed  to  give  a  picture  of  the  life  of  a 
young  man  in  Paris  during  the  two  years  which  pre- 
ceded the  war.  They  recorded  dinner-parties,  visits 
to  the  theatres,  examinations  passed,  prizes  won  and 
lost,  receptions,  rides  in  the  Bois,  and  Sunday  excur- 
sions into  the  country.  All  these  phrases,  these  ap- 
pointments, these  meetings,  might  have  particular 
meanings.  But  if  so,  how  stupendous  a  cipher! 
Besides,  how  was  it  that  none  of  these  messages  had 
been  passed  into  Paris?  Very  reluctantly  I  began 
to  doubt  my  own  conjecture.  I  read  some  more 
letters,  and  then  I  suddenly  turned  back  to  the  earlier 

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ones.  I  compared  them  with  the  later  notes.  I  began 
to  be  afraid  the  correspondence  after  all  was  genuine, 
for  the  tone  of  the  letters  changed  and  changed  so 
gradually,  and  yet  so  clearly,  that  the  greatest  literary 
art  could  hardly  have  deliberately  composed  them.  I 
seemed  to  witness  the  actual  progress  of  M.  Armand, 
a  hobbledehoy  from  the  provinces  losing  his  awk- 
wardness, acquiring  ease  and  polish  in  his  contact  with 
the  refinement  of  Paris.  Gratitude  was  now  expressed 
without  effusion,  he  was  no  longer  gaping  with  admira- 
tion at  the  elegance  of  the  women,  a  knowledge  of 
the  world  began  to  show  itself  in  his  comments.  M. 
Armand  was  growing  master  of  himself,  he  had  gained 
a  facility  of  style  and  a  felicity  of  phrase.  The  last 
letters  had  the  postmark  of  Paris,  the  first  that  of 
Auvergne. 

They  were  genuine,  then.  And  they  were  not  love- 
letters.  I  looked  at  Mademoiselle  Sophie  with  an  in- 
creased perplexity.  Why  did  she  now  sit  rocking  her 
head  like  a  child  in  pain?  Why  had  she  so  struggled 
to  hinder  me  from  opening  them?  They  recorded  a 
beginning  of  acquaintanceship  and  the  growth  of  that 
into  friendship  between  a  young  man  and  a  young  girl 
— nothing  more.  The  friendship  might  eventually 
end  in  marriage  no  doubt  if  left  to  itself,  but  there  was 
not  a  word  of  that  in  the  letters.  I  was  still  wonder- 
ing, when  the  French  officer  raised  himself  from  his 
sofa  and  dragged  himself  across  the  room  to  Made- 
moiselle Sophie's  chair.  His  left  trouser  leg  had  been 

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slit  down  the  side  from  the  knee  to  the  foot  and  laced 
lightly  so  as  to  make  room  for  a  bandage.  He  sup- 
ported himself  from  chair  to  chair  with  evident  pain, 
and  I  could  not  doubt  that  his  wound  was  as  genuine 
as  the  letters. 

He  bent  down  and  gently  took  her  hand  away  from 
her  face. 

"Sophie,"  he  said,  "I  did  not  dare  to  think  that 
you  kept  this  place  for  me  in  your  thoughts.  A  little 
more  courage  and  I  should  long-  since  have  said  to  you 
what  I  say  now.  I  beg  your  permission  to  ask  Madame 
de  Villetaneuse  to-morrow  for  your  hand  in  marriage." 

My  house  of  cards  tumbled  down  in  a  second.  The 
French  officer  was  M.  Armand.  With  the  habit  women 
have  of  treasuring  tokens  of  the  things  which  have  hap- 
pened, Mademoiselle  Sophie  had  kept  all  these  trifling 
notes  and  messages,  and  had  even  gathered  to  them 
the  letters  written  by  him  to  her  mother,  so  that  the 
story  might  be  complete.  But  without  M.  Armand's 
knowledge;  he  was  not  to  know;  her  pride  must  guard 
her  secret  from  him.  For  she  was  the  lover  and  he 
only  the  friend,  and  she  knew  it.  Even  in  the  little 
speech  which  he  had  just  made,  there  was  just  too 
much  formality,  just  too  little  sincerity  of  voice.  I 
understood  why  she  had  tried  to  throw  the  ebony  box 
down  into  the  hall  so  that  I  might  open  it  there — I 
understood  that  I  had  caused  her  great  humiliation. 
But  that  was  not  all  there  was  for  me  to  understand. 

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In  answer  to  Armand  she  raised  her  eyes  quietly, 
and  shook  her  head. 

"You  wish  to  spare  me  shame,"  she  said,  "and  I 
thank  you  very  much.  But  it  is  because  of  these 
letters  that  you  spoke.  I  must  think  that.  I  must 
always  think  it." 

"No!"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  yes,"  she  replied  firmly.  "If  monsieur  had 
not  unlocked  that  box — I  don't  know — but  some  day 
perhaps — oh,  not  yet,  no,  not  yet — but  some  day  per- 
haps you  might  have  come  of  your  own  accord  and  said 
what  you  have  just  said.  And  I  should  have  been 
very  happy.  But  now  you  never  must.  For  you  see 
I  shall  always  think  that  the  letters  are  prompting  you." 

And  M.  Armand  bowed. 

I  had  taken  from  her  her  chance  of  happiness.  The 
friendship  between  them  might  have  ended  in  marriage 
if  left  to  itself.  But  I  had  not  left  it  to  itself. 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  "I  am  very  sorry." 

She  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  me. 

"Monsieur,  I  warned  you.  It  is  too  late  to  be 
sorry,"  and  as  I  stood  shuffling  awkwardly  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  she  added,  gently,  "Will  you  not  go, 
monsieur?" 

I  went  out  of  the  room,  called  together  my  escort, 
mounted  and  rode  off.  It  was  past  midnight  now,  and 
the  night  was  clear.  But  I  thought  neither  of  the  little 
beds  under  the  slope  of  the  roof  nor  of  any  danger  on 

361 


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the  road.  There  might  have  been  a  franc-tireur  be- 
hind every  tree.  I  would  never  have  noticed  it  until 
one  of  them  had  brought  me  down.  Remorse  was 
heavy  upon  me.  I  had  behaved  without  considera- 
tion, without  chivalry,  without  any  manners  at  all. 
I  had  not  been  able  to  distinguish  truth  when  it  stared 
me  in  the  face,  or  to  recognise  honesty  when  it  looked 
out  from  a  young  girl's  dark  eyes.  I  had  behaved,  in  a 
word,  like  the  brute  six  months  of  war  had  made  of  me. 
I  wondered  with  a  vague  hope  whether  after  all  time 
might  not  set  matters  right  between  M.  Armand  and 
Mademoiselle  Sophie.  And  I  wonder  now  whether  it 
has.  But  even  if  I  knew  that  it  had,  I  should  always 
remember  that  Christmas  night  of  1870  with  acute 
regret.  The  only  incident,  indeed,  which  I  can  men- 
tion with  the  slightest  satisfaction  is  this:  On  the  way 
back  to  Noisy-le-Grand  I  came  to  a  point  where  the 
road  from  Chelles  crossed  the  road  from  Montfermeil. 
I  halted  at  a  little  cabin  which  stood  upon  a  grass-plot 
within  the  angle  of  the  roads,  and  tying  up  all  the 
money  I  had  on  me  in  a  pocket-handkerchief  I  dropped 
the  handkerchief  through  a  broken  window-pane. 

The  Colonel  let  the  end  of  his  cigar  fall  upon  his  plate, 
and  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  table.  "But  I 
see  we  shall  be  late  for  the  opera,"  he  said,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  clock. 

November,  1905. 

362 


THE  AFFAIR 
AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 


THE  AFFAIR 
AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 


Mr.  Ricardo,  when  the  excitements  of  the  Villa 
Rose  were  done  with,  returned  to  Grosvenor  Square 
and  resumed  the  busy,  unnecessary  life  of  an  amateur. 
But  the  studios  had  lost  their  savour,  artists  their 
attractiveness,  and  even  the  Russian  opera  seemed  a 
trifle  flat.  Life  was  altogether  a  disappointment; 
Fate,  like  an  actress  at  a  restaurant,  had  taken  the 
wooden  pestle  in  her  hand  and  stirred  all  the  sparkle 
out  of  the  champagne;  Mr.  Ricardo  languished — until 
one  unforgettable  morning. 

He  was  sitting  disconsolately  at  his  breakfast-table 
when  the  door  was  burst  open  and  a  square,  stout 
man,  with  the  blue,  shaven  face  of  a  French  comedian, 
flung  himself  into  the  room.  Ricardo  sprang  towards 
the  new-comer  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

"MydearHanaud!" 

He  seized  his  visitor  by  the  arm,  feeling  it  to  make 
sure  that  here,  in  flesh  and  blood,  stood  the  man  who 
had  introduced  him  to  the  acutest  sensations  of  his 
life.  He  turned  towards  his  butler,  who  was  still 

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THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

bleating  expostulations  in  the  doorway  at  the  uncere- 
monious irruption  of  the  French  detective. 

"Another  place,  Burton,  at  once,"  he  cried,  and  as 
soon  as  he  and  Hanaud  were  alone:  "What  good  wind 
blows  you  to  London  ?  " 

"Business,  my  friend.  The  disappearance  of  bul- 
lion somewhere  on  the  line  between  Paris  and  London. 
But  it  is  finished.  Yes,  I  take  a  holiday." 

A  light  had  suddenly  flashed  in  Mr.  Ricardo's  eyes, 
and  was  now  no  less  suddenly  extinguished.  Hanaud 
paid  no  attention  whatever  to  his  friend's  disappoint- 
ment. He  pounced  upon  a  piece  of  silver  which 
adorned  the  tablecloth  and  took  it  over  to  the  window. 

"Everything  is  as  it  should  be,  my  friend,"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  grin.  "Grosvenor  Square,  the  Times 
open  at  the  money  column,  and  a  false  antique  upon 
the  table.  Thus  I  have  dreamed  of  you.  All  Mr. 
Ricardo  is  in  that  sentence." 

Ricardo  laughed  nervously.  Recollection  made  him 
wary  of  Hanaud's  sarcasms.  He  was  shy  even  to 
protest  the  genuineness  of  his  silver.  But,  indeed,  he 
had  not  the  tune.  For  the  door  opened  again  and 
once  more  the  butler  appeared.  On  this  occasion, 
however,  he  was  alone. 

"Mr.  Calladine  would  like  to  speak  to  you,  sir,"  he 
said. 

"  Calladine ! "  cried  Ricardo  in  an  extreme  surprise. 
"That  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing."  He  looked 

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THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

at  the  clock  upon  his  mantelpiece.  It  was  barely 
half-past  eight.  "At  this  hour,  too?" 

"Mr.  Calladine  is  still  wearing  evening  dress,"  the 
butler  remarked. 

Ricardo  started  in  his  chair.  He  began  to  dream 
of  possibilities;  and  here  was  Hanaud  miraculously  at 
his  side. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Calladine?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  shown  him  into  the  library." 

"Good,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo.     "I  will  come  to  him." 

But  he  was  in  no  hurry.  He  sat  and  let  his  thoughts 
play  with  this  incident  of  Calladine's  early  visit. 

"It  is  very  odd,"  he  said.  "I  have  not  seen  Calla- 
dine for  months — no,  nor  has  anyone.  Yet,  a  little 
while  ago,  no  one  was  more  often  seen." 

He  fell  apparently  into  a  muse,  but  he  was  merely 
seeking  to  provoke  Hanaud's  curiosity.  In  this  at- 
tempt, however,  he  failed.  Hanaud  continued  plac- 
idly to  eat  his  breakfast,  so  that  Mr.  Ricardo  was 
compelled  to  volunteer  the  story  which  he  was  burn- 
ing to  tell. 

"Drink  your  coffee,  Hanaud,  and  you  shall  hear 
about  Calladine." 

Hanaud  grunted  with  resignation,  and  Mr.  Ricardo 
flowed  on: 

"Calladine  was  one  of  England's  young  men.  Ev- 
erybody said  so.  He  was  going  to  do  very  wonderful 
things  as  soon  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  exactly 

367 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

what  sort  of  wonderful  things  he  was  going  to  do. 
Meanwhile,  you  met  him  in  Scotland,  at  Newmarket, 
at  Ascot,  at  Cowes,  in  the  box  of  some  great  lady  at 
the  Opera — not  before  half-past  ten  in  the  evening 
there — in  any  fine  house  where  the  candles  that  night 
happened  to  be  lit.  He  went  everywhere,  and  then 
a  day  came  and  he  went  nowhere.  There  was  no 
scandal,  no  trouble,  not  a  whisper  against  his  good 
name.  He  simply  vanished.  For  a  little  while  a  few 
people  asked:  'What  has  become  of  Calladine?'  But 
there  never  was  any  answer,  and  London  has  no  time 
for  unanswered  questions.  Other  promising  young  men 
dined  in  his  place.  Calladine  had  joined  the  huge 
legion  of  the  Come-to-nothings.  No  one  even  seemed 
to  pass  him  in  the  street.  Now  unexpectedly,  at  half- 
past  eight  in  the  morning,  and  in  evening  dress,  he 
calls  upon  me.  'Why?'  I  ask  myself." 

Mr.  Ricardo  sank  once  more  into  a  reverie.  Hanaud 
watched  him  with  a  broadening  smile  of  pure  enjoy- 
ment. 

"And  in  time,  I  suppose,"  he  remarked  casually, 
"you  will  perhaps  ask  him?" 

Mr.  Ricardo  sprang  out  of  his  pose  to  his  feet. 

"Before  I  discuss  serious  things  with  an  acquain- 
tance," he  said  with  a  scathing  dignity,  "I  make  it  a 
rule  to  revive  my  impressions  of  his  personality.  The 
cigarettes  are  in  the  crystal  box." 

"They  would  be,"  said  Hanaud,  unabashed,  as 
368 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Ricardo  stalked  from  the  room.    But  in  five  minutes 
Mr.  Rica-do  came  running  back,  all  his  composure  gone. 

"  It  is  the  greatest  good  fortune  that  you,  my  friend, 
should  have  chosen  this  morning  to  visit  me,"  he 
cried,  and  Hanaud  nodded  with  a  little  grimace  of 
resignation. 

"There  goes  my  holiday.  You  shall  command  me 
now  and  always.  I  will  make  the  acquaintance  of 
your  young  friend." 

He  rose  up  and  followed  Ricardo  into  his  study, 
where  a  young  man  was  nervously  pacing  the  floor. 

"Mr.  Calladine,"  said  Ricardo.  "This  is  Mr.  Ha- 
naud." 

The  young  man  turned  eagerly.  He  was  tall,  with  a 
noticeable  elegance  and  distinction,  and  the  face  which 
he  showed  to  Hanaud  was,  in  spite  of  its  agitation, 
remarkably  handsome. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  said.  "You  are  not  an  official 
of  this  country.  You  can  advise — without  yourself 
taking  action,  if  you'll  be  so  good." 

Hanaud  frowned.  He  bent  his  eyes  uncompromis- 
ingly upon  Calladine. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  he  asked,  with  a  note  of 
sternness  in  his  voice. 

"It  means  that  I  must  tell  someone,"  Calladine 
burst  out  in  quivering  tones.  "That  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I  am  in  a  difficulty  too  big  for  me. 
That's  the  truth." 

369 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Hanaud  looked  at  the  young  man  keenly.  It 
seemed  to  Ricardo  that  he  took  in  every  excited  ges- 
ture, every  twitching  feature,  in  one  comprehensive 
glance.  Then  he  said  in  a  friendlier  voice: 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me" — and  he  himself  drew  up  a 
chair  to  the  table. 

"I  was  at  the  Semiramis  last  night,"  said  Calladine, 
naming  one  of  the  great  hotels  upon  the  Embankment. 
"There  was  a  fancy-dress  ball." 

All  this  happened,  by  the  way,  in  those  far-off  days 
before  the  war — nearly,  in  fact,  three  years  ago  to- 
day— when  London,  flinging  aside  its  reticence,  its 
shy  self-consciousness,  had  become  a  city  of  carnivals 
and  masquerades,  rivalling  its  neighbours  on  the  Con- 
tinent in  the  spirit  of  its  gaiety,  and  exceeding  them 
by  its  stupendous  luxury.  "I  went  by  the  merest 
chance.  My  rooms  are  in  the  Adelphi  Terrace." 

"There!"  cried  Mr.  Ricardo  in  surprise,  and  Ha- 
naud lifted  a  hand  to  check  his  interruptions. 

"Yes,"  continued  Calladine.  "The  night  was 
warm,  the  music  floated  through  my  open  windows 
and  stirred  old  memories.  I  happened  to  have  a 
ticket.  I  went." 

Calladine  drew  up  a  chair  opposite  to  Hanaud 
and,  seating  himself,  told,  with  many  nervous  starts 
and  in  troubled  tones,  a  story  which,  to  Mr.  Ricardo's 
thinking,  was  as  fabulous  as  any  out  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights." 

370 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"I  had  a  ticket,"  he  began,  "but  no  domino.  I 
was  consequently  stopped  by  an  attendant  in  the 
lounge  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  leading  down  to  the 
ballroom. 

"'You  can  hire  a  domino  in  the  cloakroom,  Mr. 
Calladine/  he  said  to  me.  I  had  already  begun  to 
regret  the  impulse  which  had  brought  me,  and  I  wel- 
comed the  excuse  with  which  the  absence  of  a  costume 
provided  me.  I  was,  indeed,  turning  back  to  the  door, 
when  a  girl  who  had  at  that  moment  run  down  from 
the  stairs  of  the  hotel  into  the  lounge,  cried  gaily: 
'That's  not  necessary';  and  at  the  same  moment  she 
flung  to  me  a  long  scarlet  cloak  which  she  had  been 
wearing  over  her  own  dress.  She  was  young,  fair, 
rather  tall,  slim,  and  very  pretty;  her  hair  was  drawn 
back  from  her  face  with  a  ribbon,  and  rippled  down 
her  shoulders  in  heavy  curls;  and  she  was  dressed  in 
a  satin  coat  and  knee-breeches  of  pale  green  and  gold, 
with  a  white  waistcoat  and  silk  stockings  and  scarlet 
heels  to  her  satin  shoes.  She  was  as  straight-limbed  as 
a  boy,  and  exquisite  like  a  figure  in  Dresden  china.  I 
caught  the  cloak  and  turned  to  thank  her.  But  she 
did  not  wait.  With  a  laugh  she  ran  down  the  stairs 
a  supple  and  shining  figure,  and  was  lost  in  the  throng 
at  the  doorway  of  the  ballroom.  I  was  stirred  by  the 
prospect  of  an  adventure.  I  ran  down  after  her.  She 
was  standing  just  inside  the  room  alone,  and  she  was 
gazing  at  the  scene  with  parted  lips  and  dancing  eyes. 

371 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

She  laughed  again  as  she  saw  the  cloak  about  my 
shoulders,  a  delicious  gurgle  of  amusement,  and  I 
said  to  her: 

"  'May  I  dance  with  you?' 

'  'Oh,  do !'  she  cried,  with  a  little  jump,  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands.  She  was  of  a  high  and  joyous  spirit 
and  not  difficult  in  the  matter  of  an  introduction. 
'This  gentleman  will  do  very  well  to  present  us/  she 
said,  leading  me  in  front  of  a  bust  of  the  God  Pan 
which  stood  in  a  niche  of  the  wall.  '  I  am,  as  you  see, 
straight  out  of  an  opera.  My  name  is  Celymene  or 
anything  with  an  eighteenth-century  sound  to  it.  You 
are — what  you  will.  For  this  evening  we  are  friends.' 

"'And  for  to-morrow?'  I  asked. 

" '  I  will  tell  you  about  that  later  on,'  she  replied, 
and  she  began  to  dance  with  a  light  step  and  a  pas- 
sion in  her  dancing  which  earned  me  many  an  envious 
glance  from  the  other  men.  I  was  in  luck,  for  Cely- 
mene knew  no  one,  and  though,  of  course,  I  saw  the 
faces  of  a  great  many  people  whom  I  remembered, 
I  kept  them  all  at  a  distance.  We  had  been  dancing 
for  about  half  an  hour  when  the  first  queerish  thing 
happened.  She  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a 
sentence  with  a  little  gasp.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she 
did  not  hear.  She  was  gazing  past  me,  her  eyes  wide 
open,  and  such  a  rapt  look  upon  her  face  as  I  had 
never  seen.  She  was  lost  in  a  miraculous  vision.  I 
followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and,  to  my  astonish- 
ment, I  saw  nothing  more  than  a  stout,  short,  middle- 

372 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

aged  woman,  egregiously  over-dressed  as  Marie  Antoi- 
nette. 

"'So  you  do  know  someone  here?'  I  said,  and  I 
had  to  repeat  the  words  sharply  before  my  friend 
withdrew  her  eyes.  But  even  then  she  was  not  aware 
of  me.  It  was  as  if  a  voice  had  spoken  to  her  whilst 
she  was  asleep  and  had  disturbed,  but  not  wakened 
her.  Then  she  came  to — there's  really  no  other  word 
I  can  think  of  which  describes  her  at  that  moment — 
she  came  to  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"'No/  she  answered.  'She  is  a  Mrs.  Blumenstein 
from  Chicago,  a  widow  with  ambitions  and  a  great 
deal  of  money.  But  I  don't  know  her.' 

"  'Yet  you  know  all  about  her,'  I  remarked. 

"'She  crossed  in  the  same  boat  with  me/  Cely- 
mene  replied.  'Did  I  tell  you  that  I  landed  at  Liver- 
pool this  morning?  She  is  staying  at  the  Semiramis 
too.  Oh,  let  us  dance ! ' 

"She  twitched  my  sleeve  impatiently,  and  danced 
with  a  kind  of  violence  and  wildness  as  if  she  wished 
to  banish  some  sinister  thought.  And  she  did  un- 
doubtedly banish  it.  We  supped  together  and  grew 
confidential,  as  under  such  conditions  people  will. 
She  told  me  her  real  name.  It  was  Joan  Carew. 

'"I  have  come  over  to  get  an  engagement  if  I  can  at 
Covent  Garden.  I  am  supposed  to  sing  all  right.  But  I 
don't  know  anyone.  I  have  been  brought  up  in  Italy.' 

'"You  have  some  letters  of  introduction,  I  sup- 
pose ? '  I  asked. 

373 


"  'Oh,  yes.  One  from  my  teacher  in  Milan.  One 
from  an  American  manager.' 

"  In  my  turn  I  told  her  my  name  and  where  I  lived, 
and  I  gave  her  my  card.  I  thought,  you  see,  that 
since  I  used  to  know  a  good  many  operatic  people,  I 
might  be  able  to  help  her. 

"'Thank  you/  she  said,  and  at  that  moment  Mrs. 
Blumenstein,  followed  by  a  party,  chiefly  those  lap- 
dog  young  men  who  always  seem  to  gather  about  that 
kind  of  person,  came  into  the  supper-room  and  took 
a  table  close  to  us.  There  was  at  once  an  end  of  all 
confidences — indeed,  of  all  conversation.  Joan  Carew 
lost  all  the  lightness  of  her  spirit;  she  talked  at  ran- 
dom, and  her  eyes  were  drawn  again  and  again  to  the 
grotesque  slander  on  Marie  Antoinette.  Finally  I 
became  annoyed. 

"'Shall  we  go?'  I  suggested  impatiently,  and  to 
my  surprise  she  whispered  passionately: 

"'Yes.    Please!    Let  us  go.' 

"Her  voice  was  actually  shaking,  her  small  hands 
clenched.  We  went  back  to  the  ballroom,  but  Joan 
Carew  did  not  recover  her  gaiety,  and  half-way  through 
a  dance,  when  we  were  near  to  the  door,  she  stopped 
abruptly — extraordinarily  abruptly. 

"'I  shall  go,'  she  said  abruptly.  'I  am  tired.  I 
have  grown  dull.' 

"I  protested,  but  she  made  a  little  grimace. 

"'You'll  hate  me  hi  half  an  hour.  Let's  be  wise 
374 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

and  stop  now  while  we  are  friends,'  she  said,  and 
whilst  I  removed  the  domino  from  my  shoulders  she 
stooped  very  quickly.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  picked 
up  something  which  had  lain  hidden  beneath  the  sole 
of  her  slipper.  She  certainly  moved  her  foot,  and  I 
certainly  saw  something  small  and  bright  flash  in  the 
palm  of  her  glove  as  she  raised  herself  again.  But  I 
imagined  merely  that  it  was  some  object  which  she 
had  dropped. 

"  'Yes,  we'll  go/  she  said,  and  we  went  up  the  stairs 
into  the  lobby.  Certainly  all  the  sparkle  had  gone  out 
of  our  adventure.  I  recognized  her  wisdom. 

"  'But  I  shall  meet  you  again?'  I  asked. 

'"Yes.  I  have  your  address.  I'll  write  and  fix  a 
time  when  you  will  be  sure  to  find  me  in.  Good-night, 
and  a  thousand  thanks.  I  should  have  been  bored  to 
tears  if  you  hadn't  come  without  a  domino.' 

"  She  was  speaking  lightly  as  she  held  out  her  hand, 
but  her  grip  tightened  a  little  and — clung.  Her  eyes 
darkened  and  grew  troubled,  her  mouth  trembled. 
The  shadow  of  a  great  trouble  had  suddenly  closed 
about  her.  She  shivered. 

"'I  am  half  inclined  to  ask  you  to  stay,  however 
dull  I  am;  and  dance  with  me  till  daylight — the  safe 
daylight/  she  said. 

"It  was  an  extraordinary  phrase  for  her  to  use, 
and  it  moved  me. 

"  'Let  us  go  back  then !'  I  urged.  She  gave  me  an 
375 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

impression  suddenly  of  someone  quite  forlorn.  But 
Joan  Carew  recovered  her  courage.  'No,  no/  she  an- 
swered quickly.  She  snatched  her  hand  away  and 
ran  lightly  up  the  staircase,  turning  at  the  corner  to 
wave  her  hand  and  smile.  It  was  then  half-past  one 
in  the  morning." 

So  far  Calladine  had  spoken  without  an  interrup- 
tion. Mr.  Ricardo,  it  is  true,  was  bursting  to  break 
in  with  the  most  important  questions,  but  a  salutary 
fear  of  Hanaud  restrained  him.  Now,  however,  he 
had  an  opportunity,  for  Calladine  paused. 

"Half-past  one/'  he  said  sagely.    "Ah!" 

"And  when  did  you  go  home?"  Hanaud  asked  of 
Calladine. 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo.  "It  is  of  the  greatest 
consequence." 

Calladine  was  not  sure.  His  partner  had  left  be- 
hind her  the  strangest  medley  of  sensations  in  his 
breast.  He  was  puzzled,  haunted,  and  charmed.  He 
had  to  think  about  her;  he  was  a  trifle  uplifted;  sleep 
was  impossible.  He  wandered  for  a  while  about  the 
ballroom.  Then  he  walked  to  his  chambers  along  the 
echoing  streets  and  sat  at  his  window;  and  some  time 
afterwards  the  hoot  of  a  motor-horn  broke  the  silence 
and  a  car  stopped  and  whirred  in  the  street  below. 
A  moment  later  his  bell  rang. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs  hi  a  queer  excitement,  un- 
locked the  street  door  and  opened  it.  Joan  Carew, 

376 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

still  in  her  masquerade  dress  with  her  scarlet  cloak 
about  her  shoulders,  slipped  through  the  opening. 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  whispered,  drawing  herself 
apart  in  a  corner. 

"Your  cab?"  asked  CaHadine. 

"It  has  gone." 

Calladine  latched  the  door.  Above,  in  the  well  of 
the  stairs,  the  light  spread  out  from  the  open  door  of 
his  flat.  Down  here  all  was  dark.  He  could  just  see 
the  glimmer  of  her  white  face,  the  glitter  of  her  dress, 
but  she  drew  her  breath  like  one  who  has  run  far. 
They  mounted  the  stairs  cautiously.  He  did  not  say 
a  word  until  they  were  both  safely  in  his  parlour;  and 
even  then  it  was  in  a  low  voice. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"You  remember  the  woman  I  stared  at?  You 
didn't  know  why  I  stared,  but  any  girl  would  have 
understood.  She  was  wearing  the  loveliest  pearls  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life." 

Joan  was  standing  by  the  edge  of  the  table.  She 
was  tracing  with  her  finger  a  pattern  on  the  cloth  as 
she  spoke.  Calladine  started  with  a  horrible  presenti- 
ment. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  worship  pearls.  I  always  have 
done  so.  For  one  thing,  they  improve  on  me.  I  haven't 
got  any,  of  course.  I  have  no  money.  But  friends 
of  mine  who  do  own  pearls  have  sometimes  given 
theirs  to  me  to  wear  when  they  were  going  sick,  and 

377 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

they  have  always  got  back  their  lustre.  I  think  that 
has  had  a  little  to  do  with  my  love  of  them.  Oh,  I 
have  always  longed  for  them — just  a  little  string. 
Sometimes  I  have  felt  that  I  would  have  given  my 
soul  for  them." 

She  was  speaking  in  a  dull,  monotonous  voice. 
But  Calladine  recalled  the  ecstasy  which  had  shone  in 
her  face  when  her  eyes  first  had  fallen  on  the  pearls, 
the  longing  which  had  swept  her  quite  into  another 
world,  the  passion  with  which  she  had  danced  to 
throw  the  obsession  off. 

"And  I  never  noticed  them  at  all,"  he  said. 

"  Yet  they  were  wonderful.  The  colour !  The  lus- 
tre !  All  the  evening  they  tempted  me.  I  was  furious 
that  a  fat,  coarse  creature  like  that  should  have  such 
exquisite  things.  Oh,  I  was  mad." 

She  covered  her  face  suddenly  with  her  hands  and 
swayed.  Calladine  sprang  towards  her.  But  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

"No,  I  am  all  right."  And  though  he  asked  her  to 
sit  down  she  would  not.  "You  remember  when  I 
stopped  dancing  suddenly?" 

"Yes.  You  had  something  hidden  under  your 
foot?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  Her  key ! "  And  under  his  breath  Calladine  ut- 
tered a  startled  cry. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  entered  the  room 
378 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Joan  Carew  raised  her  heaql  and  looked  at  him.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  terror,  and  with  the  terror  was  mixed 
an  incredulity  as  though  she  could  not  possibly  be- 
lieve that  that  had  happened  which  she  knew  had 
happened. 

"A  little  Yale  key,"  the  girl  continued.  "I  saw 
Mrs.  Blumenstein  looking  on  the  floor  for  something, 
and  then  I  saw  it  shining  on  the  very  spot.  Mrs. 
Blumenstein's  suite  was  on  the  same  floor  as  mine, 
and  her  maid  slept  above.  All  the  maids  do.  I  knew 
that.  Oh,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  sold  my  soul 
and  was  being  paid." 

Now  Calladine  understood  what  she  had  meant  by 
her  strange  phrase — "the  safe  daylight." 

"I  went  up  to  my  little  suite,"  Joan  Carew  contin- 
ued. "I  sat  there  with  the  key  burning  through  my 
glove  until  I  had  given  her  time  enough  to  fall  asleep  " 
— and  though  she  hesitated  before  she  spoke  the  words, 
she  did  speak  them,  not  looking  at  Calladine,  and 
with  a  shudder  of  remorse  making  her  confession 
complete.  "Then  I  crept  out.  The  corridor  was 
dimly  lit.  Far  away  below  the  music  was  throbbing. 
Up  here  it  was  as  silent  as  the  grave.  I  opened  the 
door — her  door.  I  found  myself  in  a  lobby.  The 
suite,  though  bigger,  was  arranged  like  mine.  I 
slipped  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  me.  I  listened 
in  the  darkness.  I  couldn't  hear  a  sound.  I  crept 
forward  to  the  door  in  front  of  me.  I  stood  with  my 

379 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

fingers  on  the  handle  and  my  heart  beating  fast  enough 
to  choke  me.  I  had  still  time  to  turn  back.  But  I 
couldn't.  There  were  those  pearls  in  front  of  my 
eyes,  lustrous  and  wonderful.  I  opened  the  door  gen- 
tly an  inch  or  so — and  then — it  all  happened  in  a 
second." 

Joan  Carew  faltered.  The  night  was  too  near  to 
her,  its  memory  too  poignant  with  terror.  She  shut 
her  eyes  tightly  and  cowered  down  in  a  chair.  With 
the  movement  her  cloak  slipped  from  her  shoulders 
and  dropped  on  to  the  ground.  Calladine  leaned  for- 
ward with  an  exclamation  of  horror;  Joan  Carew 
started  up. 

"What  is  it?  "she  asked. 

"Nothing.    Go  on." 

"I  found  myself  inside  the  room  with  the  door  shut 
behind  me.  I  had  shut  it  myself  in  a  spasm  of  ter- 
ror. And  I  dared  not  turn  round  to  open  it.  I  was 
helpless." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    She  was  awake  ?  " 

Joan  Carew  shook  her  head. 

"There  were  others  in  the  room  before  me,  and  on 
the  same  errand — men!" 

Calladine  drew  back,  his  eyes  searching  the  girl's 
face. 

"Yes?  "he  said  slowly. 

"I  didn't  see  them  at  first.  I  didn't  hear  them. 
The  room  was  quite  dark  except  for  one  jet  of  fierce 

380 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

white  light  which  beat  upon  the  door  of  a  safe.  And 
as  I  shut  the  door  the  jet  moved  swiftly  and  the  light 
reached  me  and  stopped.  I  was  blinded.  I  stood  in 
the  full  glare  of  it,  drawn  up  against  the  panels  of  the 
door,  shivering,  sick  with  fear.  Then  I  heard  a  quiet 
laugh,  and  someone  moved  softly  towards  me.  Oh, 
it  was  terrible !  I  recovered  the  use  of  my  limbs;  in  a 
panic  I  turned  to  the  door,  but  I  was  too  late.  Whilst 
I  fumbled  with  the  handle  I  was  seized;  a  hand  cov- 
ered my  mouth.  I  was  lifted  to  the  centre  of  the 
room.  The  jet  went  out,  the  electric  lights  were 
turned  on.  There  were  two  men  dressed  as  apaches 
in  velvet  trousers  and  red  scarves,  like  a  hundred 
others  in  the  ballroom  below,  and  both  were  masked. 
I  struggled  furiously;  but,  of  course,  I  was  like  a  child 
hi  their  grasp.  'Tie  her  legs/  the  man  whispered 
who  was  holding  me;  'she's  making  too  much  noise/ 
I  kicked  and  fought,  but  the  other  man  stooped  and 
tied  my  ankles,  and  I  fainted." 

Calladine  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes?  "he  said. 

"When  I  came  to,  the  lights  were  still  burning,  the 
door  of  the  safe  was  open,  the  room  empty;  I  had  been 
flung  on  to  a  couch  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I  was  ly- 
ing there  quite  free." 

"Was  the  safe  empty?"  asked  Calladine  suddenly. 

"I  didn't  look,"  she  answered.  "Oh!"— and  she 
covered  her  face  spasmodically  with  her  hands.  "I 

381 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

looked  at  the  bed.  Someone  was  lying  there — under 
a  sheet  and  quite  still.  There  was  a  clock  ticking  in 
the  room;  it  was  the  only  sound.  I  was  terrified.  I 
was  going  mad  with  fear.  If  I  didn't  get  out  of  the 
room  at  once  I  felt  that  I  should  go  mad,  that  I  should 
scream  and  bring  everyone  to  find  me  alone  with — 
what  was  under  the  sheet  in  the  bed.  I  ran  to  the 
door  and  looked  out  through  a  slit  into  the  corridor. 
It  was  still  quite  empty,  and  below  the  music  still 
throbbed  in  the  ballroom.  I  crept  down  the  stairs, 
meeting  no  one  until  I  reached  the  hall.  I  looked  into 
the  ballroom  as  if  I  was  searching  for  someone.  I 
stayed  long  enough  to  show  myself.  Then  I  got  a 
cab  and  came  to  you." 

A  short  silence  followed.  Joan  Carew  looked  at 
her  companion  in  appeal.  "You  are  the  only  one  I 
could  come  to,"  she  added.  "I  know  no  one  else." 

Calladine  sat  watching  the  girl  in  silence.  Then  he 
asked,  and  his  voice  was  hard : 

"And  is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  quite  sure?" 

Joan  Carew  looked  at  him  perplexed  by  the  urgency 
of  his  question.  She  reflected  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Quite." 

Calladine  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Then  how  do  you  come  to  be  wearing  this?"  he 
asked,  and  he  lifted  a  chain  of  platinum  and  diamonds 

382 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

which  she  was  wearing  about  her  shoulders.  "You 
weren't  wearing  it  when  you  danced  with  me." 

Joan  Carew  stared  at  the  chain. 

"No.  It's  not  mine.  I  have  never  seen  it  before." 
Then  a  light  came  into  her  eyes.  "The  two  men — 
they  must  have  thrown  it  over  my  head  when  I  was 
on  the  couch — before  they  went."  She  looked  at  it 
more  closely.  "That's  it.  The  chain's  not  very 
valuable.  They  could  spare  it,  and — it  would  accuse 
me — of  what  they  did." 

"Yes,  that's  very  good  reasoning,"  said  Calladine 
coldly. 

Joan  Carew  looked  quickly  up  into  his  face. 

"Oh,  you  don't  believe  me,"  she  cried.  "You 
think — oh,  it's  impossible."  And,  holding  him  by  the 
edge  of  his  coat,  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  passionate 
denials. 

"But  you  went  to  steal,  you  know,"  he  said  gently, 
and  she  answered  him  at  once: 

"Yes,  I  did,  but  not  this."  And  she  held  up  the 
necklace.  "Should  I  have  stolen  this,  should  I  have 
come  to  you  wearing  it,  if  I  had  stolen  the  pearls,  if  I 
had  " — and  she  stopped — "  if  my  story  were  not  true  ?  " 

Calladine  weighed  her  argument,  and  it  affected  him. 

"No,  I  think  you  wouldn't,"  he  said  frankly. 

Most  crimes,  no  doubt,  were  brought  home  because 
the  criminal  had  made  some  incomprehensibly  stupid 
mistake;  incomprehensibly  stupid,  that  is,  by  the 

383 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

standards  of  normal  life.  Nevertheless,  Calladine  was 
inclined  to  believe  her.  He  looked  at  her.  That  she 
should  have  murdered  was  absurd.  Moreover,  she 
was  not  making  a  parade  of  remorse,  she  was  not 
playing  the  unctuous  penitent;  she  had  yielded  to  a 
temptation,  had  got  herself  into  desperate  straits,  and 
was  at  her  wits'  ends  how  to  escape  from  them.  She 
was  frank  about  herself. 

Calladine  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  nearly  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  though  the  music  could 
still  be  heard  from  the  ballroom  in  the  Semiramis,  the 
night  had  begun  to  wane  upon  the  river. 

"You  must  go  back,"  he  said.   "I'll  walk  with  you." 

They  crept  silently  down  the  stairs  and  into  the 
street.  It  was  only  a  step  to  the  Semiramis.  They 
met  no  one  until  they  reached  the  Strand.  There 
many,  like  Joan  Carew  in  masquerade,  were  standing 
about,  or  walking  hither  and  thither  in  search  of  car- 
riages and  cabs.  The  whole  street  was  in  a  bustle, 
what  with  drivers  shouting  and  people  coming  away. 

"You  can  slip  in  unnoticed,"  said  Calladine  as  he 
looked  into  the  thronged  courtyard.  "I'll  telephone 
to  you  in  the  morning." 

"You  will?"  she  cried  eagerly,  clinging  for  a  mo- 
ment to  his  arm. 

"Yes,  for  certain,"  he  replied.  "Wait  hi  until  you 
hear  from  me.  I'll  think  it  over.  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  fervently. 
384 


He  watched  her  scarlet  cloak  flitting  here  and  there 
in  the  crowd  until  it  vanished  through  the  doorway. 
Then,  for  the  second  time,  he  walked  back  to  his 
chambers,  while  the  morning  crept  up  the  river  from 
the  sea. 


This  was  the  story  which  Calladine  told  in  Mr. 
Ricardo's  library.  Mr.  Ricardo  heard  it  out  with 
varying  emotions.  He  began  with  a  thrill  of  expec- 
tation like  a  man  on  a  dark  threshold  of  great  excite- 
ments. The  setting  of  the  story  appealed  to  him,  too, 
by  a  sort  of  brilliant  bizarrerie  which  he  found  in  it. 
But,  as  it  went  on,  he  grew  puzzled  and  a  trifle  dis- 
heartened. There  were  flaws  and  chinks;  he  began  to 
bubble  with  unspoken  criticisms,  then  swift  and  clever 
thrusts  which  he  dared  not  deliver.  He  looked  upon 
the  young  man  with  disfavour,  as  upon  one  who  had 
half  opened  a  door  upon  a  theatre  of  great  promise 
and  shown  him  a  spectacle  not  up  to  the  mark.  Ha- 
naud,  on  the  other  hand,  listened  imperturbably,  with- 
out an  expression  upon  his  face,  until  the  end.  Then 
he  pointed  a  finger  at  Calladine  and  asked  him  what 
to  Ricardo's  mind  was  a  most  irrelevant  question. 

"You  got  back  to  your  rooms,  then,  before  five,  Mr. 
Calladine,  and  it  is  now  nine  o'clock  less  a  few  min- 
utes." 

"Yes." 

385 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"Yet  you  have  not  changed  your  clothes.  Explain 
to  me  that.  What  did  you  do  between  five  and  half- 
past  eight?" 

Calladine  looked  down  at  his  rumpled  shirt  front. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  never  thought  of  it,"  he  cried. 
"I  was  worried  out  of  my  mind.  I  couldn't  decide 
what  to  do.  Finally,  I  determined  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Ricardo,  and  after  I  had  come  to  that  conclusion  I 
just  waited  impatiently  until  I  could  come  round  with 
decency." 

Hanaud  rose  from  his  chair.  His  manner  was  grave, 
but  conveyed  no  single  hint  of  an  opinion.  He  turned 
to  Ricardo. 

"Let  us  go  round  to  your  young  friend's  rooms  in 
the  Adelphi,"  he  said;  and  the  three  men  drove  thither 
at  once. 


II 


Calladine  lodged  in  a  corner  house  and  upon  the 
first  floor.  His  rooms,  large  and  square  and  lofty, 
with  Adam  mantelpieces  and  a  delicate  tracery  upon 
their  ceilings,  breathed  the  grace  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Broad  high  windows,  embrasured  in  thick 
walls,  overlooked  the  river  and  took  in  all  the  sunshine 
and  the  air  which  the  river  had  to  give.  And  they 
were  furnished  fittingly.  When  the  three  men  entered 
the  parlour,  Mr.  Ricardo  was  astounded.  He  had  ex- 

386 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

pected  the  untidy  litter  of  a  man  run  to  seed,  the  neg- 
lect and  the  dust  of  the  recluse.  But  the  room  was 
as  clean  as  the  deck  of  a  yacht;  an  Aubusson  carpet 
made  the  floor  luxurious  underfoot;  a  few  coloured 
prints  of  real  value  decorated  the  walls;  and  the  ma- 
hogany furniture  was  polished  so  that  a  lady  could 
have  used  it  as  a  mirror.  There  was  even  by  the 
newspapers  upon  the  round  table  a  china  bowl  full  of 
fresh  red  roses.  If  Calladine  had  turned  hermit,  he 
was  a  hermit  of  an  unusually  fastidious  type.  Indeed, 
as  he  stood  with  his  two  companions  in  his  dishevelled 
dress  he  seemed  quite  out  of  keeping  with  his  rooms. 

"So  you  live  here,  Mr.  Calladine?"  said  Hanaud, 
taking  off  his  hat  and  laying  it  down. 

"Yes." 

"With  your  servants,  of  course?" 

"They  come  in  during  the  day,"  said  Calladine, 
and  Hanaud  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  sleep  here  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"But  your  valet?" 

"I  don't  keep  a  valet,"  said  Calladine;  and  again 
the  curious  look  came  into  Hanaud's  eyes. 

"Yet,"  he  suggested  gently,  "there  are  rooms 
enough  in  your  set  of  chambers  to  house  a  family." 

Calladine  coloured  and  shifted  uncomfortably  from 
one  foot  to  the  other. 

"I  prefer  at  night  not  to  be  disturbed,"  he  said, 
387 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

stumbling  a  little  over  the  words.  "  I  mean,  I  have  a 
liking  for  quiet." 

Gabriel  Hanaud  nodded  his  head  with  sympathy. 

"Yes,  yes.  And  it  is  a  difficult  thing  to  get — as 
difficult  as  my  holiday,"  he  said  ruefully,  with  a  smile 
for  Mr.  Ricardo.  "However" — he  turned  towards 
Calladine — "no  doubt,  now  that  you  are  at  home, 
you  would  like  a  bath  and  a  change  of  clothes.  And 
when  you  are  dressed,  perhaps  you  will  telephone  to 
the  Semiramis  and  ask  Miss  Carew  to  come  round 
here.  Meanwhile,  we  will  read  your  newspapers  and 
smoke  your  cigarettes." 

Hanaud  shut  the  door  upon  Calladine,  but  he  turned 
neither  to  the  papers  nor  the  cigarettes.  He  crossed 
the  room  to  Mr.  Ricardo,  who,  seated  at  the  open 
window,  was  plunged  deep  in  reflections. 

"You  have  an  idea,  my  friend,"  cried  Hanaud. 
"It  demands  to  express  itself.  That  sees  itself  in 
your  face.  Let  me  hear  it,  I  pray." 

Mr.  Ricardo  started  out  of  an  absorption  which  was 
altogether  assumed. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  with  a  faraway  smile, 
"that  you  might  disappear  in  the  forests  of  Africa, 
and  at  once  everyone  would  be  very  busy  about  your 
disappearance.  You  might  leave  your  village  in 
Leicestershire  and  live  in  the  fogs  of  Glasgow,  and 
within  a  week  the  whole  village  would  know  your 
postal  address.  But  London — what  a  city !  How  dif- 

388 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

ferent!  How  indifferent!  Turn  out  of  St.  James's 
into  the  Adelphi  Terrace  and  not  a  soul  will  say  to  you: 
'Dr.  Livingstone,  I  presume?" 

"But  why  should  they,"  asked  Hanaud,  "if  your 
name  isn't  Dr.  Livingstone  ?  " 

Mr.  Ricardo  smiled  indulgently. 

"Scoffer!"  he  said.  "You  understand  me  very 
well,"  and  he  sought  to  turn  the  tables  on  his  com- 
panion. "And  you — does  this  room  suggest  nothing 
to  you?  Have  you  no  ideas?"  But  he  knew  very 
well  that  Hanaud  had.  Ever  since  Hanaud  had  crossed 
the  threshold  he  had  been  like  a  man  stimulated  by  a 
drug.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  active,  his  body  alert. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have." 

He  was  standing  now  by  Ricardo 's  side  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  out  at  the  trees  on  the 
Embankment  and  the  barges  swinging  down  the 
river. 

"You  are  thinking  of  the  strange  scene  which  took 
place  in  this  room  such  a  very  few  hours  ago,"  said 
Ricardo.  "The  girl  in  her  masquerade  dress  mak- 
ing her  confession  with  the  stolen  chain  about  her 
throat " 

Hanaud  looked  backwards  carelessly.  "No,  I 
wasn't  giving  it  a  thought,"  he  said,  and  in  a  moment 
or  two  he  began  to  walk  about  the  room  with  that 
curiously  light  step  which  Ricardo  was  never  able  to 
reconcile  with  his  cumbersome  figure.  With  the 

389 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

heaviness  of  a  bear  he  still  padded.  He  went  from 
corner  to  comer,  opened  a  cupboard  here,  a  drawer  of 
the  bureau  there,  and — stooped  suddenly.  He  stood 
erect  again  with  a  small  box  of  morocco  leather  in  his 
hand.  His  body  from  head  to  foot  seemed  to  Ricardo 
to  be  expressing  the  question,  "Have  I  found  it?" 
He  pressed  a  spring  and  the  lid  of  the  box  flew  open. 
Hanaud  emptied  its  contents  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  There  were  two  or  three  sticks  of  sealing-wax 
and  a  seal.  With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  replaced 
them  and  shut  the  box. 

"You  are  looking  for  something,"  Ricardo  an- 
nounced with  sagacity. 

"I  am,"  replied  Hanaud;  and  it  seemed  that  in  a 
second  or  two  he  found  it.  Yet — yet — he  found  it 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  if  he  had  found  it.  Mr. 
Ricardo  saw  him  stop  in  that  attitude  in  front  of  the 
mantelshelf,  and  heard  him  utter  a  long,  low  whistle. 
Upon  the  mantelshelf  some  photographs  were  ar- 
ranged, a  box  of  cigars  stood  at  one  end,  a  book  or 
two  lay  between  some  delicate  ornaments  of  china, 
and  a  small  engraving  in  a  thin  gilt  frame  was  propped 
at  the  back  against  the  wall.  Ricardo  surveyed  the 
shelf  from  his  seat  in  the  window,  but  he  could  not 
imagine  which  it  was  of  these  objects  that  so  drew  and 
held  Hanaud's  eyes. 

Hanaud,  however,  stepped  forward.  He  looked 
into  a  vase  and  turned  it  upside  down.  Then  he  re- 

390 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

moved  the  lid  of  a  porcelain  cup,  and  from  the  very 
look  of  his  great  shoulders  Ricardo  knew  that  he  had 
discovered  what  he  sought.  He  was  holding  something 
in  his  hands,  turning  it  over,  examining  it.  When  he 
was  satisfied  he  moved  swiftly  to  the  door  and  opened 
it  cautiously.  Both  men  could  hear  the  splashing  of 
water  in  a  bath.  Hanaud  closed  the  door  again  with 
a  nod  of  contentment  and  crossed  once  more  to  the 
window. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  very  strange  and  curious,"  he  said, 
"and  I  do  not  regret  that  you  dragged  me  into  the 
affair.  You  were  quite  right,  my  friend,  this  morning. 
It  is  the  personality  of  your  young  Mr.  Calladine 
which  is  the  interesting  thing.  For  instance,  here  we 
are  in  London  in  the  early  summer.  The  trees  out, 
freshly  green,  lilac  and  flowers  in  the  gardens,  and  I 
don't  know  what  tingle  of  hope  and  expectation  in 
the  sunlight  and  the  air.  I  am  middle-aged — yet  there's 
a  riot  in  my  blood,  a  recapture  of  youth,  a  belief  that 
just  round  the  corner,  beyond  the  reach  of  my  eyes, 
wonders  wait  for  me.  Don't  you,  too,  feel  something 
like  that  ?  Well,  then — "  and  he  heaved  his  shoulders 
in  astonishment. 

"Can  you  understand  a  young  man  with  money, 
with  fastidious  tastes,  good-looking,  hiding  himself  in 
a  corner  at  such  a  time — except  for  some  overpower- 
ing reason  ?  No.  Nor  can  I.  There  is  another  thing 
— I  put  a  question  or  two  to  Calladine." 

391 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"  Yes,"  said  Ricardo. 

"He  has  no  servants  here  at  night.  He  is  quite 
alone  and — here  is  what  I  find  interesting — he  has  no 
valet.  That  seems  a  small  thing  to  you?"  Hanaud 
asked  at  a  movement  from  Ricardo.  "Well,  it  is  no 
doubt  a  trifle,  but  it's  a  significant  trifle  in  the  case  of 
a  young  rich  man.  It  is  generally  a  sign  that  there  is 
something  strange,  perhaps  even  something  sinister,  in 
his  life.  Mr.  Calladine,  some  months  ago,  turned  out  of 
St.  James's  into  the  Adelphi.  Can  you  tell  me  why  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Ricardo.    "Can  you?" 

Hanaud  stretched  out  a  hand.  In  his  open  palm 
lay  a  small  round  hairy  bulb  about  the  size  of  a  big 
button  and  of  a  colour  between  green  and  brown. 

"  Look ! "  he  said.    "  What  is  that  ? " 

Mr.  Ricardo  took  the  bulb  wonderingly. 

"It  looks  to  me  like  the  fruit  of  some  kind  of 
cactus." 

Hanaud  nodded. 

"It  is.  You  will  see  some  pots  of  it  in  the  hot- 
houses of  any  really  good  botanical  gardens.  Kew 
has  them,  I  have  no  doubt.  Paris  certainly  has.  They 
are  labelled  'Anhalonium  LuinuY  But  amongst  the 
Indians  of  Yucatan  the  plant  has  a  simpler  name." 

"What  name?"  asked  Ricardo. 

"Mescal." 

Mr.  Ricardo  repeated  the  name.  It  conveyed  noth- 
ing to  him  whatever. 

392 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"There  are  a  good  many  bulbs  just  like  that  in  the 
cup  upon  the  mantelshelf,"  said  Hanaud. 

Ricardo  looked  quickly  up. 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

"Mescal  is  a  drug." 

Ricardo  started. 

"Yes,  you  are  beginning  to  understand  now,"  Ha- 
naud continued,  "why  your  young  friend  Calladine 
turned  out  of  St.  James's  into  the  Adelphi  Terrace." 

Ricardo  turned  the  little  bulb  over  in  his  fingers. 

"You  make  a  decoction  of  it,  I  suppose?"  he  said. 

"Or  you  can  use  it  as  the  Indians  do  in  Yucatan," 
replied  Hanaud.  "Mescal  enters  into  their  religious 
ceremonies.  They  sit  at  night  in  a  circle  about  a  fire 
built  hi  the  forest  and  chew  it,  whilst  one  of  their 
number  beats  perpetually  upon  a  drum." 

Hanaud  looked  round  the  room  and  took  notes  of 
its  luxurious  carpet,  its  delicate  appointments.  Out- 
side the  window  there  was  a  thunder  in  the  streets, 
a  clamour  of  voices.  Boats  went  swiftly  down  the 
river  on  the  ebb.  Beyond  the  mass  of  the  Semiramis 
rose  the  great  grey-white  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  Op- 
posite, upon  the  Southwark  bank,  the  giant  sky-signs, 
the  big  Highlander  drinking  whisky,  and  the  rest  of 
them  waited,  gaunt  skeletons,  for  the  night  to  limn 
them  in  fire  and  give  them  life.  Below  the  trees  in 
the  gardens  rustled  and  waved.  In  the  air  were  the 
uplift  and  the  sparkle  of  the  young  summer. 

393 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"It's  a  long  way  from  the  forests  of  Yucatan  to 
the  Adelphi  Terrace  of  London,"  said  Hanaud.  "Yet 
here,  I  think,  in  these  rooms,  when  the  servants  are 
all  gone  and  the  house  is  very  quiet,  there  is  a  little 
corner  of  wild  Mexico." 

A  look  of  pity  came  into  Mr.  Ricardo's  face.  He 
had  seen  more  than  one  young  man  of  great  promise 
slacken  his  hold  and  let  go,  just  for  this  reason.  Calla- 
dine,  it  seemed,  was  another. 

"  It's  like  bhang  and  kieff  and  the  rest  of  the  devilish 
things,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  indignantly  tossing  the 
button  upon  the  table. 

Hanaud  picked  it  up. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "It's  not  quite  like  any  other 
drug.  It  has  a  quality  of  its  own  which  just  now  is 
of  particular  importance  to  you  and  me.  Yes,  my 
friend" — and  he  nodded  his  head  very  seriously — • 
"we  must  watch  that  we  do  not  make  the  big  fools  of 
ourselves  in  this  affair." 

"There,"  Mr.  Ricardo  agreed  with  an  ineffable  air 
of  wisdom,  "I  am  entirely  with  you." 

"Now,  why?"  Hanaud  asked.  Mr.  Ricardo  was 
at  a  loss  for  a  reason,  but  Hanaud  did  not  wait.  "I 
will  tell  you.  Mescal  intoxicates,  yes — but  it  does 
more — it  gives  to  the  man  who  eats  of  it  colour- 
dreams." 

"Colour-dreams?"  Mr.  Ricardo  repeated  in  a  won- 
dering voice. 

394 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"Yes,  strange  heated  charms,  in  which  violent 
^things  happen  vividly  amongst  bright  colours.  Colour 
is  the  gift  of  this  little  prosaic  brown  button."  He 
spun  the  bulb  in  the  air  like  a  coin,  and  catching  it 
again,  took  it  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  dropped  it 
into  the  porcelain  cup. 

"Are  you  sure  of  this?"  Ricardo  cried  excitedly, 
and  Hanaud  raised  his  hand  in  warning.  He  went  to 
the  door,  opened  it  for  an  inch  or  so,  and  closed  it 
again. 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  he  returned.  "I  have  for  a 
friend  a  very  learned  chemist  in  the  College  de  France. 
He  is  one  of  those  enthusiasts  who  must  experiment 
upon  themselves.  He  tried  this  drug." 

"Yes,"  Ricardo  said  in  a  quieter  voice.  "And 
what  did  he  see  ?  " 

"He  had  a  vision  of  a  wonderful  garden  bathed  in 
sunlight,  an  old  garden  of  gorgeous  flowers  and  emerald 
lawns,  ponds  with  golden  lilies  and  thick  yew  hedges 
—a  garden  where  peacocks  stepped  indolently  and 
groups  of  gay  people  fantastically  dressed  quarrelled 
and  fought  with  swords.  That  is  what  he  saw.  And 
he  saw  it  so  vividly  that,  when  the  vapours  of  the  drug 
passed  from  his  brain  and  he  waked,  he  seemed  to  be 
coming  out  of  the  real  world  into  a  world  of  shifting 
illusions." 

Hanaud's  strong  quiet  voice  stopped,  and  for  a 
while  there  was  a  complete  silence  in  the  room.  Neither 

395 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

of  the  two  men  stirred  so  much  as  a  finger.  Mr.  Ricar- 
do  once  more  was  conscious  of  the  thrill  of  strange 
sensations.  He  looked  round  the  room.  He  could 
hardly  believe  that  a  room  which  had  been — nay 
was — the  home  and  shrine  of  mysteries  in  the  dark 
hours  could  wear  so  bright  and  innocent  a  freshness 
in  the  sunlight  of  the  morning.  There  should  be  some- 
thing sinister  which  leaped  to  the  eyes  as  you  crossed 
the  threshold. 

"Out  of  the  real  world,"  Mr.  Ricardo  quoted,  "I 
begin  to  see." 

"Yes,  you  begin  to  see,  my  friend,  that  we  must 
be  very  careful  not  to  make  the  big  fools  of  ourselves. 
My  friend  of  the  College  de  France  saw  a  garden.  But 
had  he  been  sitting  alone  in  the  window-seat  where 
you  are,  listening  through  a  summer  night  to  the 
music  of  the  masquerade  at  the  Semiramis,  might  he 
not  have  seen  the  ballroom,  the  dancers,  the  scarlet 
cloak,  and  the  rest  of  this  story?" 

"You  mean,"  cried  Ricardo,  now  fairly  startled, 
"that  Calladine  came  to  us  with  the  fumes  of  mescal 
still  working  in  his  brain,  that  the  false  world  was 
the  real  one  still  for  him."  , 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Hanaud.  "At  present  I 
only  put  questions.  I  ask  them  of  you.  I  wish  to 
hear  how  they  sound.  Let  us  reason  this  problem  out. 
Calladine,  let  us  say,  takes  a  great  deal  more  of  the 
drug  than  my  professor.  It  will  have  on  him  a  more 

396 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

powerful  effect  while  it  lasts,  and  it  will  last  longer. 
Fancy  dress  balls  are  familiar  things  to  Calladine. 
The  music  floating  from  the  Semiramis  will  revive 
old  memories.  He  sits  here,  the  pageant  takes  shape 
before  him,  he  sees  himself  taking  his  part  in  it.  Oh, 
he  is  happier  here  sitting  quietly  in  his  window-seat 
than  if  he  was  actually  at  the  Semiramis.  For  he  is 
there  more  intensely,  more  vividly,  more  really,  than 
if  he  had  actually  descended  this  staircase.  He  lives 
his  story  through,  the  story  of  a  heated  brain,  the 
scene  of  it  changes  in  the  way  dreams  have,  it  be- 
comes tragic  and  sinister,  it  oppresses  him  with  horror, 
and  in  the  morning,  so  obsessed  with  it  that  he  does 
not  think  to  change  his  clothes,  he  is  knocking  at 
your  door." 

Mr.  Ricardo  raised  his  eyebrows  and  moved. 

"Ah!  You  see  a  flaw  in  my  argument,"  said  Ha- 
naud.  But  Mr.  Ricardo  was  wary.  Too  often  in  other 
days  he  had  been  leaped  upon  and  trounced  for  a 
careless  remark. 

"Let  me  hear  the  end  of  your  argument,"  he  said. 
"There  was  then  to  your  thinking  no  temptation  of 
jewels,  no  theft,  no  murder — in  a  word,  no  Celymene  ? 
She  was  born  of  recollections  and  the  music  of  the 
Semiramis." 

"No !"  cried  Hanaud.  "Come  with  me,  my  friend. 
I  am  not  so  sure  that  there  was  no  Celymene." 

With  a  smile  upon  his  face,  Hanaud  led  the  way 
397 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

across  the  room.  He  had  the  dramatic  instinct,  and 
rejoiced  in  it.  He  was  going  to  produce  a  surprise 
for  his  companion  and,  savouring  the  moment  in  ad- 
vance, he  managed  his  effects.  He  walked  towards 
the  mantelpiece  and  stopped  a  few  paces  away  from 
it. 

"Look!" 

Mr.  Ricardo  looked  and  saw  a  broad  Adam  mantel- 
piece. He  turned  a  bewildered  face  to  his  friend. 

"You  see  nothing?"  Hanaud  asked. 

"Nothing!" 

"Look  again!  I  am  not  sure — but  is  it  not  that 
Celymene  is  posing  before  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Ricardo  looked  again.  There  was  nothing  to 
fix  his  eyes.  He  saw  a  book  or  two,  a  cup,  a  vase  or 
two,  and  nothing  else  really  except  a  very  pretty  and 
apparently  valuable  piece  of — and  suddenly  Mr. 
Ricardo  understood.  Straight  in  front  of  him,  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  mantelpiece,  a  figure  in  painted 
china  was  leaning  against  a  china  stile.  It  was  the 
figure  of  a  perfectly  impossible  courtier,  feminine  and 
exquisite  as  could  be,  and  apparelled  also  even  to  the 
scarlet  heels  exactly  as  Calladine  had  described  Joan 
Carew. 

Hanaud  chuckled  with  satisfaction  when  he  saw 
the  expression  upon  Mr.  Ricardo's  face. 

"Ah,  you  understand,"  he  said.  "Do  you  dream, 
my  friend  ?  At  times — yes,  like  the  rest  of  us.  Then 

398 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

recollect  your  dreams?  Things,  people,  which  you 
v  have  seen  perhaps  that  day,  perhaps  months  ago, 
pop  in  and  out  of  them  without  making  themselves 
prayed  for.  You  cannot  understand  why.  Yet  some- 
times they  cut  their  strange  capers  there,  logically, 
too,  through  subtle  associations  which  the  dreamer, 
once  awake,  does  not  apprehend.  Thus,  our  friend 
here  sits  in  the  window,  intoxicated  by  his  drug,  the 
music  plays  in  the  Semiramis,  the  curtain  goes  up  in 
the  heated  theatre  of  his  brain.  He  sees  himself  step 
upon  the  stage,  and  who  else  meets  him  but  the  china 
figure  from  his  mantelpiece  ?  " 

Mr.  Ricardo  for  a  moment  was  all  enthusiasm. 
Then  his  doubt  returned  to  him. 

"What  you  say,  my  dear  Hanaud,  is  very  ingenious. 
The  figure  upon  the  mantelpiece  is  also  extremely 
convincing.  And  I  should  be  absolutely  convinced 
but  for  one  thing." 

"Yes?"  said  Hanaud,  watching  his  friend  closely. 

"I  am — I  may  say  it,  I  think,  a  man  of  the  world. 
And  I  ask  myself" — Mr.  Ricardo  never  could  ask 
himself  anything  without  assuming  a  manner  of  ex- 
treme pomposity — "  I  ask  myself,  whether  a  young  man 
who  has  given  up  his  social  ties,  who  has  become  a 
hermit,  and  still  more  who  has  become  the  slave  of  a 
drug,  would  retain  that  scrupulous  carefulness  of  his 
body  which  is  indicated  by  dressing  for  dinner  when 
alone?" 

399 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Hanaud  struck  the  table  with  the  palm  of  his  hand 
and  sat  down  in  a  chair. 

"Yes.  That  is  the  weak  point  in  my  theory.  You 
have  hit  it.  I  knew  it  was  there — that  weak  point, 
and  I  wondered  whether  you  would  seize  it.  Yes, 
the  consumers  of  drugs  are  careless,  untidy — even 
unclean  as  a  rule.  But  not  always.  We  must  be 
careful.  We  must  wait." 

"For  what?"  asked  Ricardo,  beaming  with  pride. 

"For  the  answer  to  a  telephone  message,"  replied 
Hanaud,  with  a  nod  towards  the  door. 

Both  men  waited  impatiently  until  Calladine  came 
into  the  room.  He  wore  now  a  suit  of  blue  serge,  he 
had  a  clearer  eye,  his  skin  a  healthier  look;  he  was 
altogether  a  more  reputable  person.  But  he  was 
plainly  very  ill  at  ease.  He  offered  his  visitors  ciga- 
rettes, he  proposed  refreshments,  he  avoided  entirely 
and  awkwardly  the  object  of  then*  visit.  Hanaud 
smiled.  His  theory  was  working  out.  Sobered  by  his 
bath,  Calladine  had  realised  the  foolishness  of  which 
he  had  been  guilty. 

"You  telephone,  to  the  Semiramis,  of  course?" 
said  Hanaud  cheerfully. 

Calladine  grew  red. 

"Yes,"  he  stammered. 

"Yet  I  did  not  hear  that  volume  of  'Hallos'  which 
precedes  telephonic  connection  in  your  country  of 
leisure,"  Hanaud  continued. 

400 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"I  telephoned  from  my  bedroom.  You  would  not 
hear  anything  in  this  room." 

"Yes,  yes;  the  walls  of  these  old  houses  are  solid." 
Hanaud  was  playing  with  his  victim.  "And  when 
may  we  expect  Miss  Carew?" 

"I  can't  say,"  replied  Calladine.  "It's  very  strange. 
She  is  not  in  the  hotel.  I  am  afraid  that  she  has  gone 
away,  fled." 

Mr.  Ricardo  and  Hanaud  exchanged  a  look.  They 
were  both  satisfied  now.  There  was  no  word  of  truth 
in  Calladine's  story. 

"Then  there  is  no  reason  for  us  to  wait,"  said  Ha- 
naud. "  I  shall  have  my  holiday  after  all."  And  while 
he  was  yet  speaking  the  voice  of  a  newsboy  calling 
out  the  first  edition  of  an  evening  paper  became  dis- 
tantly audible.  Hanaud  broke  off  his  farewell.  For 
a  moment  he  listened,  with  his  head  bent.  Then  the 
voice  was  heard  again,  confused,  indistinct;  Hanaud 
picked  up  his  hat  and  cane  and,  without  another 
word  to  Calladine,  raced  down  the  stairs.  Mr.  Ricardo 
followed  him,  but  when  he  reached  the  pavement, 
Hanaud  was  half  down  the  little  street.  At  the  corner, 
however,  he  stopped,  and  Ricardo  joined  him,  cough- 
ing and  out  of  breath. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  gasped. 

"Listen,"  said  Hanaud. 

At  the  bottom  of  Duke  Street,  by  Charing  Cross 
Station,  the  newsboy  was  shouting  his  wares.  Both 

401 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

men  listened,  and  now  the  words  came  to  them  mis- 
pronounced but  decipherable. 

"Mysterious  crime  at  the  Semiramis  Hotel." 

Ricardo  stared  at  his  companion. 

"You  were  wrong,  then!"  he  cried.  "Calladine's 
story  was  true." 

For  once  in  a  way  Hanaud  was  quite  disconcerted. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  said.  "We  will  buy 
a  paper." 

But  before  he  could  move  a  step  a  taxi-cab  turned 
into  the  Adelphi  from  the  Strand,  and  wheeling  in 
front  of  their  faces,  stopped  at  Calladine's  door.  From 
the  cab  a  girl  descended. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  said  Hanaud. 

Ill 

Mr.  Ricardo  could  no  longer  complain/  It  was 
half-past  eight  when  Calladine  had  first  disturbed 
the  formalities  of  his  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  It 
was  barely  ten  now,  and  during  that  short  time  he 
had  been  flung  from  surprise  to  surprise,  he  had  looked 
underground  on  a  morning  of  fresh  summer,  and  had 
been  thrilled  by  the  contrast  between  the  queer,  sinister 
life  below  and  within  and  the  open  call  to  joy  of  the 
green  world  above.  He  had  passed  from  incredulity 
to  belief,  from  belief  to  incredulity,  and  when  at  last 
incredulity  was  firmly  established,  and  the  story  to 

402 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

which  he  had  listened  proved  the  emanation  of  a 
drugged  and  heated  brain,  lo !  the  facts  buffeted  him 
in  the  face,  and  the  story  was  shown  to  be  true. 

"I  am  alive  once  more,"  Mr.  Ricardo  thought  as 
he  turned  back  with  Hanaud,  and  in  his  excitement 
he  cried  his  thought  aloud. 

"Are  you?"  said  Hanaud.  "And  what  is  life  with- 
out a  newspaper?  If  you  will  buy  one  from  that 
remarkably  raucous  boy  at  the  bottom  of  the  street 
I  will  keep  an  eye  upon  Calladine's  house  till  you 
come  back." 

Mr.  Ricardo  sped  down  to  Charing  Cross  and 
brought  back  a  copy  of  the  fourth  edition  of  the  Star. 
He  handed  it  to  Hanaud,  who  stared  at  it  doubt- 
fully, folded  as  it  was. 

"Shall  we  see  what  it  says?"  Ricardo  asked  im- 
patiently. 

"By  no  means,"  Hanaud  answered,  waking  from 
his  reverie  and  tucking  briskly  away  the  paper  into 
the  tail  pocket  of  his  coat.  "We  will  hear  what  Miss 
Joan  Carew  has  to  say,  with  our  minds  undisturbed 
by  any  discoveries.  I  was  wondering  about  something 
totally  different." 

"Yes?"  Mr.  Ricardo  encouraged  him.  "What 
was  it?" 

"I  was  wondering,  since  it  is  only  ten  o'clock,  at 
what  hour  the  first  editions  of  the  evening  papers 
appear." 

403 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"  It  is  a  question,"  Mr.  Ricardo  replied  sententiously, 
"which  the  greatest  minds  have  failed  to  answer." 

And  they  walked  along  the  street  to  the  house.  The 
front  door  stood  open  during  the  day  like  the  front 
door  of  any  other  house  which  is  let  off  in  sets  of  rooms. 
Hanaud  and  Ricardo  went  up  the  staircase  and  rang 
the  bell  of  Calladine's  door.  A  middle-aged  woman 
opened  it. 

"  Mr.  Calladine  is  in  ?  "  said  Hanaud. 

"I  will  ask,"  replied  the  woman.  "What  name 
shall  I  say?" 

"It  does  not  matter.  I  will  go  straight  in,"  said 
Hanaud  quietly.  "I  was  here  with  my  friend  but  a 
minute  ago." 

He  went  straight  forward  and  into  Calladine's 
parlour.  Mr.  Ricardo  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
opened  the  door  and  saw  a  girl  turn  to  them  suddenly 
a  white  face  of  terror,  and  flinch  as  though  already 
she  felt  the  hand  of  a  constable  upon  her  shoulder. 
Calladine,  on  the  other  hand,  uttered  a  cry  of  relief. 

"These  are  my  friends,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  girl, 
"the  friends  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you";  and  to  Ha- 
naud he  said:  "This  is  Miss  Carew." 

Hanaud  bowed. 

"You  shall  tell  me  your  story,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said  very  gently,  and  a  little  colour  returned  to  the 
girl's  cheeks,  a  little  courage  revived  in  her. 

"But  you  have  heard  it,"  she  answered. 

"Not  from  you,"  said  Hanaud. 
404 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

So  for  a  second  time  in  that  room  she  told  the  his- 
tory of  that  night.  Only  this  time  the  sunlight  was 
warm  upon  the  world,  the  comfortable  sounds  of  life's 
routine  were  borne  through  the  windows,  and  the  girl 
herself  wore  the  inconspicuous  blue  serge  of  a  thou- 
sand other  girls  afoot  that  morning.  These  trifles 
of  circumstance  took  the  edge  of  sheer  horror  off  her 
narrative,  so  that,  to  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Ricardo  was 
a  trifle  disappointed.  He  wanted  a  crescendo  motive 
in  his  music,  whereas  it  had  begun  at  its  fortissimo. 
Hanaiid,  however,  was  the  perfect  listener.  He  lis- 
tened without  stirring  and  with  most  compassionate 
eyes,  so  that  Joan  Carew  spoke  only  to  him,  and  to 
him,  each  moment  that  passed,  with  greater  confidence. 
The  life  and  sparkle  of  her  had  gone  altogether.  There 
was  nothing  in  her  manner  now  to  suggest  the  way- 
wardness, the  gay  irresponsibility,  the  radiance,  which 
had  attracted  Calladine  the  night  before.  She  was 
just  a  very  young  and  very  pretty  girl,  telling  in  a 
low  and  remorseful  voice  of  the  tragic  dilemma  to 
which  she  had  brought  herself.  Of  Celymene  all  that 
remained  was  something  exquisite  and  fragile  in  her 
beauty,  in  the  slimness  of  her  figure,  in  her  daintiness 
of  hand  and  foot — something  almost  of  the  hot-house. 
But  the  story  she  told  was,  detail  for  detail,  the  same 
which  Calladine  had  already  related. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hanaud  when  she  had  done. 
"Now  I  must  ask  you  two  questions." 

"I  will  answer  them." 

405 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Mr.  Ricardo  sat  up.  He  began  to  think  of  a  third 
question  which  he  might  put  himself,  something  un- 
commonly subtle  and  searching,  which  Hanaud  would 
never  have  thought  of.  But  Hanaud  put  his  ques- 
tions, and  Ricardo  almost  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"You  will  forgive  me,  Miss  Carew.  But  have  you 
ever  stolen  before  ?  " 

Joan  Carew  turned  upon  Hanaud  with  spirit.  Then 
a  change  swept  over  her  face. 

"You  have  a  right  to  ask,"  she  answered.  "Never." 
She  looked  into  his  eyes  as  she  answered.  Hanaud 
did  not  move.  He  sat  with  a  hand  upon  each  knee 
and  led  to  his  second  question. 

"Early  this  morning,  when  you  left  this  room,  you 
told  Mr.  Calladine  that  you  would  wait  at  the  Semir- 
amis  until  he  telephoned  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Yet  when  he  telephoned,  you  had  gone  out?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Joan  Carew.  "I  could  not 
bear  to  keep  the  little  diamond  chain  in  my  room." 

For  a  moment  even  Hanaud  was  surprised.  He  had 
lost  sight  of  that  complication.  Now  he  leaned  for- 
ward anxiously;  indeed,  with  a  greater  anxiety  than 
he  had  yet  shown  in  all  this  affair. 

"I  was  terrified,"  continued  Joan  Carew.  "I  kept 
thinking:  'They  must  have  found  out  by  now.  They 

406 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

will  search  everywhere.'  I  didn't  reason.  I  lay  in 
1  bed  expecting  to  hear  every  moment  a  loud  knocking 
on  the  door.  Besides — the  chain  itself  being  there  in 
my  bedroom — her  chain — the  dead  woman's  chain — 
no,  I  couldn't  endure  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  stolen  it. 
Then  my  maid  brought  in  my  tea." 

"You  had  locked  it  away?"  cried  Hanaud. 

"Yes.    My  maid  did  not  see  it." 

Joan  Carew  explained  how  she  had  risen,  dressed, 
wrapped  the  chain  in  a  pad  of  cotton-wool  and  en- 
closed it  in  an  envelope.  The  envelope  had  not  the 
stamp  of  the  hotel  upon  it.  It  was  a  rather  large 
envelope,  one  of  a  packet  which  she  had  bought  in  a 
crowded  shop  in  Oxford  Street  on  her  way  from  Euston 
to  the  Semiramis.  She  had  bought  the  envelopes  of 
that  particular  size  in  order  that  when  she  sent  her 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  Director  of  the  Opera  at 
Covent  Garden  she  might  enclose  with  it  a  photo- 
graph. 

"And  to  whom  did  you  send  it?"  asked  Mr.  Ri- 
cardo. 

"To  Mrs.  Blumenstein  at  the  Semiramis.  I  printed 
the  address  carefully.  Then  I  went  out  and  posted 
it." 

"Where?"  Hanaud  inquired. 

"  In  the  big  letter-box  of  the  Post  Office  at  the  corner 
of  Trafalgar  Square." 

Hanaud  looked  at  the  girl  sharply. 
407 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"You  had  your  wits  about  you,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"What  if  the  envelope  gets  lost?"  said  Ricardo. 

Hanaud  laughed  grimly. 

"  If  one  envelope  is  delivered  at  its  address  in  London 
to-day,  it  will  be  that  one,"  he  said.  "The  news  of 
the  crime  is  published,  you  see,"  and  he  swung  round 
to  Joan. 

"Did  you  know  that,  Miss  Carew?" 

"No,"  she  answered  in  an  awe-stricken  voice. 

"Well,  then,  it  is.  Let  us  see  what  the  special 
investigator  has  to  say  about  it."  And  Hanaud,  with 
a  deliberation  which  Mr.  Ricardo  found  quite  ex- 
cruciating, spread  out  the  newspaper  on  the  table 
in  front  of  him. 

IV 

There  was  only  one  new  fact  in  the  couple  of  columns 
devoted  to  the  mystery.  Mrs.  Blumenstein  had  died 
from  chloroform  poisoning.  She  was  of  a  stout  habit, 
and  the  thieves  were  not  skilled  in  the  administration 
of  the  anaesthetic. 

"It's  murder  none  the  less,"  said  Hanaud,  and  he 
gazed  straight  at  Joan,  asking  her  by  the  direct  sum- 
mons of  his  eyes  what  she  was  going  to  do. 

"I  must  tell  my  story  to  the  police,"  she  replied 
painfully  and  slowly.  But  she  did  not  hesitate;  she 
was  announcing  a  meditated  plan. 

408 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Hanaud  neither  agreed  nor  differed.  His  face  was 
blank,  and  when  he  spoke  there  was  no  cordiality  in 
his  voice.  "Well,"  he  asked,  "and  what  is  it  that 
you  have  to  say  to  the  police,  miss?  That  you  went 
into  the  room  to  steal,  and  that  you  were  attacked  by 
two  strangers,  dressed  as  apaches,  and  masked  ?  That 
is  all?" 

"Yes." 

"And  how  many  men  at  the  Semiramis  ball  were 
dressed  as  apaches  and  wore  masks?  Cornel  Make 
a  guess.  A  hundred  at  the  least  ?" 

"I  should  think  so." 

"Then  what  will  your  confession  do  beyond — I 
quote  your  English  idiom — putting  you  in  the  coach  ?  " 

Mr.  Ricardo  now  smiled  with  relief.  Hanaud  was 
taking  a  definite  line.  His  knowledge  of  idiomatic 
English  might  be  incomplete,  but  his  heart  was  in  the 
right  place.  The  girl  traced  a  vague  pattern  on  the 
tablecloth  with  her  fingers. 

"Yet  I  think  I  must  tell  the  police,"  she  repeated, 
looking  up  and  dropping  her  eyes  again.  Mr.  Ricardo 
noticed  that  her  eyelashes  were  very  long.  For  the 
first  time  Hanaud's  face  relaxed. 

"And  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  he  cried  heartily, 
to  Mr.  Ricardo's  surprise.  "Tell  them  the  truth  be- 
fore they  suspect  it,  and  they  will  help  you  out  of  the 
affair  if  they  can.  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Come,  I  will 
go  with  you  myself  to  Scotland  Yard." 

409 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"Thank  you,"  said  Joan,  and  the  pair  drove  away 
in  a  cab  together. 

Hanaud  returned  to  Grosvenor  Square  alone  and 
lunched  with  Ricardo. 

"It  was  all  right,"  he  said.  "The  police  were  very 
kind.  Miss  Joan  Carew  told  her  story  to  them  as  she 
had  told  it  to  us.  Fortunately,  the  envelope  with 
the  aluminium  chain  had  already  been  delivered,  and 
was  in  their  hands.  They  were  much  mystified  about 
it,  but  Miss  Joan's  story  gave  them  a  reasonable  ex- 
planation. I  think  they  are  inclined  to  believe  her; 
and,  if  she  is  speaking  the  truth,  they  will  keep  her 
out  of  the  witness-box  if  they  can." 

"She  is  to  stay  here  in  London,  then?"  asked  Ri- 
cardo. 

"Oh,  yes;  she  is  not  to  go.  She  will  present  her 
letters  at  the  Opera  House  and  secure  an  engage- 
ment, if  she  can.  The  criminals  might  be  lulled 
thereby  into  a  belief  that  the  girl  had  kept  the  whole 
strange  incident  to  herself,  and  that  there  was  nowhere 
even  a  knowledge  of  the  disguise  which  they  had 
used."  Hanaud  spoke  as  carelessly  as  if  the  matter 
was  not  very  important;  and  Ricardo,  with  an  un- 
usual flash  of  shrewdness,  said: 

"  It  is  clear,  my  friend,  that  you  do  not  think  those 
two  men  will  ever  be  caught  at  all." 

Hanaud  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  always  a  chance.  But  listen.  There  is 
410 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

a  room  with  a  hundred  guns,  one  of  which  is  loaded. 
Outside  the  room  there  are  a  hundred  pigeons,  one  of 
which  is  white.  You  are  taken  into  the  room  blind- 
fold. You  choose  the  loaded  gun  and  you  shoot  the 
one  white  pigeon.  That  is  the  value  of  the  chance." 

"But,"  exclaimed  Ricardo,  "those  pearls  were  of 
great  value,  and  I  have  heard  at  a  trial  expert  evidence 
given  by  pearl  merchants.  All  agree  that  the  pearls 
of  great  value  are  known;  so,  when  they  come  upon 
the  market " 

"That  is  true,"  Hanaud  interrupted  imperturbably. 
"But  how  are  they  known?" 

"By  their  weight,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo. 

"Exactly,"  replied  Hanaud.  "But  did  you  not 
also  hear  at  this  trial  of  yours  that  pearls  can  be  peeled 
like  an  onion?  No?  It  is  true.  Remove  a  skin, 
two  skins,  the  weight  is  altered,  the  pearl  is  a  trifle 
smaller.  It  has  lost  a  little  of  its  value,  yes — but 
you  can  no  longer  identify  it  as  the  so-and-so  pearl 
which  belonged  to  this  or  that  sultan,  was  stolen  by 
the  vizier,  bought  by  Messrs.  Lustre  and  Steinopolis, 
of  Hatton  Garden,  and  subsequently  sold  to  the 
wealthy  Mrs.  Blumenstein.  No,  your  pearl  has 
vanished  altogether.  There  is  a  new  pearl  which  can 
be  traded."  He  looked  at  Ricardo.  "Who  shall  say 
that  those  pearls  are  not  already  in  one  of  the  queer 
little  back  streets  of  Amsterdam,  undergoing  their 
transformation  ?  " 

411 


Mr.  Ricardo  was  not  persuaded  because  he  would 
not  be.  "I  have  some  experience  in  these  matters," 
he  said  loftily  to  Hanaud.  "I  am  sure  that  we  shall 
lay  our  hands  upon  the  criminals.  We  have  never 
failed." 

Hanaud  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  The  only  experi- 
ence which  Mr.  Ricardo  had  ever  had  was  gained  on 
the  shores  of  Geneva  and  at  Aix  under  Hanaud's 
tuition.  But  Hanaud  did  not  argue,  and  there  the 
matter  rested. 

The  days  flew  by.  It  was  London's  play-time. 
The  green  and  gold  of  early  summer  deepened  and 
darkened;  wondrous  warm  nights  under  England's 
pale  blue  sky,  when  the  streets  rang  with  the  joyous 
feet  of  youth,  led  in  clear  dawns  and  lovely  glowing 
days.  Hanaud  made  acquaintance  with  the  wooded 
reaches  of  the  Thames;  Joan  Carew  sang  "Louise" 
at  Covent  Garden  with  notable  success;  and  the 
affair  of  the  Semiramis  Hotel,  in  the  minds  of  the  few 
who  remembered  it,  was  already  added  to  the  long 
list  of  unfathomed  mysteries. 

But  towards  the  end  of  May  there  occurred  a  star- 
tling development.  Joan  Carew  wrote  to  Mr.  Ricardo 
that  she  would  call  upon  him  in  the  afternoon,  and  she 
begged  him  to  secure  the  presence  of  Hanaud.  She 
came  as  the  clock  struck;  she  was  pale  and  agitated; 
and  in  the  room  where  Calladine  had  first  told  the 
story  of  her  visit  she  told  another  story  which,  to  Mr. 

412 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Ricardo's  thinking,  was  yet  more  strange  and — yes — 
yet  more  suspicious. 

"It  has  been  going  on  for  some  time,"  she  began. 
"I  thought  of  coming  to  you  at  once.  Then  I  won- 
dered whether,  if  I  waited — oh,  you'll  never  believe 
me!'* 

"Let  us  hear!"  said  Hanaud  patiently. 

"I  began  to  dream  of  that  room,  the  two  men  dis- 
guised and  masked,  the  still  figure  in  the  bed.  Night 
after  night !  I  was  terrified  to  go  to  sleep.  I  felt  the 
hand  upon  my  mouth.  I  used  to  catch  myself  falling 
asleep,  and  walk  about  the  room  with  all  the  lights 
up  to  keep  myself  awake." 

"But  you  couldn't,"  said  Hanaud  with  a  smile. 
"Only  the  old  can  do  that." 

"No,  I  couldn't,"  she  admitted;  "and — oh,  my 
nights  were  horrible  until" — she  paused  and  looked 
at  her  companions  doubtfully — "until  one  night  the 
mask  slipped." 

"What — ?"  cried  Hanaud,  and  a  note  of  sternness 
•  rang  suddenly  in  his  voice.  "What  are  you  saying?" 

With  a  desperate  rush  of  words,  and  the  colour 
staining  her  forehead  and  cheeks,  Joan  Carew  con- 
tinued: 

"  It  is  true.  The  mask  slipped  on  the  face  of  one  of 
the  men — of  the  man  who  held  me.  Only  a  little  way; 
it  just  left  his  forehead  visible — no  more." 

"Well?"  asked  Hanaud,  and  Mr.  Ricardo leaned 
413 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

forward,  swaying  between  the  austerity  of  criticism 
and  the  desire  to  believe  so  thrilling  a  revelation. 

"  I  waked  up,"  the  girl  continued,  "  in  the  darkness, 
and  for  a  moment  the  whole  scene  remained  vividly 
with  me — for  just  long  enough  for  me  to  fix  clearly 
in  my  mind  the  figure  of  the  apache  with  the  white 
forehead  showing  above  the  mask." 

"When  was  that?"  asked  Ricardo. 

"A  fortnight  ago." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  with  your  story  then?" 

"I  waited,"  said  Joan.  "What  I  had  to  tell  wasn't 
yet  helpful.  I  thought  that  another  night  the  mask 
might  slip  lower  still.  Besides,  I — it  is  difficult  to 
describe  just  what  I  felt.  I  felt  it  important  just  to 
keep  that  photograph  in  my  mind,  not  to  think  about 
it,  not  to  talk  about  it,  not  even  to  look  at  it  too  often 
lest  I  should  begin  to  imagine  the  rest  of  the  face  and 
find  something  familiar  in  the  man's  carriage  and 
shape  when  there  was  nothing  really  familiar  to  me 
at  all.  Do  you  understand  that?"  she  asked,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  in  appeal  on  Hanaud's  face. 

"Yes,"  replied  Hanaud.     "I  follow  your  thought." 

"I  thought  there  was  a  chance  now — the  strangest 
chance — that  the  truth  might  be  reached.  I  did  not 
wish  to  spoil  it,"  and  she  turned  eagerly  to  Ricardo, 
as  if,  having  persuaded  Hanaud,  she  would  now  turn 
her  batteries  on  his  companion.  "My  whole  point  of 
view  was  changed.  I  was  no  longer  afraid  of  falling 

414 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

asleep    lest   I    should   dream.    I   wished   to   dream, 
but--" 

"But  you  could  not,"  suggested  Hanaud. 

"No,  that  is  the  truth,"  replied  Joan  Carew. 
"Whereas  before  I  was  anxious  to  keep  awake  and 
yet  must  sleep  from  sheer  fatigue,  now  that  I  tried 
consciously  to  put  myself  to  sleep  I  remained  awake 
all  through  the  night,  and  only  towards  morning, 
when  the  light  was  coming  through  the  blinds,  dropped 
off  into  a  heavy,  dreamless  slumber." 

Hanaud  nodded. 

"  It  is  a  very  perverse  world,  Miss  Carew,  and  things 
go  by  contraries." 

Ricardo  listened  for  some  note  of  irony  in  Hanaud's 
voice,  some  look  of  disbelief  in  his  face.  But  there 
was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Hanaud  was  lis- 
tening patiently. 

"Then  came  my  rehearsals,"  Joan  Carew  continued, 
"and  that  wonderful  opera  drove  everything  else  out 
of  my  head.  I  had  such  a  chance,  if  only  I  could 
make  use  of  it !  When  I  went  to  bed  now,  I  went 
with  that  haunting  music  in  my  ears — the  call  of 
Paris — oh,  you  must  remember  it.  But  can  you  real- 
ise what  it  must  mean  to  a  girl  who  is  going  to  sing  it 
for  the  first  time  in  Covent  Garden?" 

Mr.  Ricardo  saw  his  opportunity.  He,  the  con- 
noisseur, to  whom  the  psychology  of  the  green  room 
was  as  an  open  book,  could  answer  that  question. 

415 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"It  is  true,  my  friend,"  he  informed  Hanaud  with 
quiet  authority.  "The  great  march  of  events  leaves 
the  artist  cold.  He  lives  aloof.  While  the  tumbrils 
thunder  in  the  streets  he  adds  a  delicate  tint  to  the 
picture  he  is  engaged  upon  or  recalls  his  triumph  in 
his  last  great  part." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hanaud  gravely.  "And  no\v 
Miss  Carew  may  perhaps  resume  her  story." 

"It  was  the  very  night  of  my  debut,"  she  continued. 
"I  had  supper  with  some  friends.  A  great  artist, 
Carmen  Valeri,  honoured  me  with  her  presence.  I 
went  home  excited,  and  that  night  I  dreamed  again." 

"Yes?" 

"This  time  the  chin,  the  lips,  the  eyes  were  visible. 
There  was  only  a  black  strip  across  the  middle  of  the 
face.  And  I  thought — nay,  I  was  sure — that  if  that 
strip  vanished  I  should  know  the  man." 

"And  it  did  vanish?" 

"Three  nights  afterwards." 

"  And  you  did  know  the  man  ?  " 

The  girl's  face  became  troubled.    She  frowned. 

"I  knew  the  face,  that  was  all,"  she  answered.  "I 
was  disappointed.  I  had  never  spoken  to  the  man. 
I  am  sure  of  that  still.  But  somewhere  I  have  seen 
him." 

"You  don't  even  remember  when?"  asked  Hanaud. 

"No."  Joan  Carew  reflected  for  a  moment  with 
her  eyes  upon  the  carpet,  and  then  flung  up  her  head 

416 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

with  a  gesture  of  despair.     "No.    I  try  all  the  time  to 
remember.     But  it  is  no  good." 

Mr.  Ricardo  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of  in- 
dignation. He  was  being  played  with.  The  girl  with 
her  fantastic  story  had  worked  him  up  to  a  real  pitch 
of  excitement  only  to  make  a  fool  of  him.  All  his 
earlier  suspicions  flowed  back  into  his  mind.  What  if, 
after  all,  she  was  implicated  in  the  murder  and  the 
theft?  What  if,  with  a  perverse  cunning,  she  had 
told  Hanaud  and  himself  just  enough  of  what  she 
knew,  just  enough  of  the  truth,  to  persuade  them  to 
protect  her  ?  What  if  her  frank  confession  of  her  own 
overpowering  impulse  to  steal  the  necklace  was  noth- 
ing more  than  a  subtle  appeal  to  the  sentimental  pity 
of  men,  an  appeal  based  upon  a  wider  knowledge  of 
men's  weaknesses  than  a  girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty 
ought  to  have?  Mr.  Ricardo  cleared  his  throat  and 
sat  forward  in  his  chair.  He  was  girding  himself  for 
a  singularly  searching  interrogatory  when  Hanaud 
asked  the  most  irrelevant  of  questions: 

"How  did  you  pass  the  evening  of  that  night  when 
you  first  dreamed  complete  the  face  of  your  assailant  ?  " 

Joan  Carew  reflected.    Then  her  face  cleared. 

"I  know,"  she  exclaimed.    "I  was  at  the  opera." 

"And  what  was  being  given?" 

"  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna." 

Hanaud  nodded  his  head.  To  Ricardo  it  seemed 
that  he  had  expected  precisely  that  answer. 

417 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "you  are  sure  that  you  have 
seen  this  man  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,"  said  Hanaud.  "There  is  a  game  you 
play  at  children's  parties — is  there  not? — animal, 
vegetable,  or  mineral,  and  always  you  get  the  an- 
swer. Let  us  play  that  game  for  a  few  minutes,  you 
and  I." 

Joan  Carew  drew  up  her  chair  to  the  table  and  sat 
with  her  chin  propped  upon  her  hands  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  Hanaud's  face.  As  he  put  each  question  she 
pondered  on  it  and  answered.  If  she  answered  doubt- 
fully he  pressed  it. 

"  You  crossed  on  the  Lucania  from  New  York  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Picture  to  yourself  the  dining-room,  the  tables. 
You  have  the  picture  quite  clear  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Was  it  at  breakfast  that  you  saw  him  ?" 

"No." 

"At  luncheon?" 

"No." 

"At  dinner?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  summoning  before  her 
eyes  the  travellers  at  the  tables. 

"No." 

"Not  in  the  dining-table  at  all,  then?" 

"No." 

418 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"In  the  library,  when  you  were  writing  letters,  did 
you  not  one  day  lift  your  head  and  see  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"On  the  promenade  deck?  Did  he  pass  you  when 
you  sat  in  your  deck-chair,  or  did  you  pass  him  when 
he  sat  in  his  chair  ?  " 

"No." 

Step  by  step  Hanaud  took  her  back  to  New  York 
to  her  hotel,  to  journeys  in  the  train.  Then  he  car- 
ried her  to  Milan  where  she  had  studied.  It  was 
extraordinary  to  Ricardo  to  realise  how  much  Hanaud 
knew  of  the  curriculum  of  a  student  aspiring  to  grand 
opera.  From  Milan  he  brought  her  again  to  New 
York,  and  at  the  last,  with  a  start  of  joy,  she  cried: 
"Yes,  it  was  there." 

Hanaud  took  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and 
wiped  his  forehead. 

"Ouf !"  he  grunted.  "To  concentrate  the  mind  on 
a  day  like  this,  it  makes  one  hot,  I  can  tell  you.  Now, 
Miss  Carew,  let  us  hear." 

It  was  at  a  concert  at  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  Starling- 
shield  in  Fifth  Avenue  and  in  the  afternoon.  Joan 
Carew  sang.  She  was  a  stranger  to  New  York  and 
very  nervous.  She  saw  nothing  but  a  mist  of  faces 
whilst  she  sang,  but  when  she  had  finished  the  mist 
cleared,  and  as  she  left  the  improvised  stage  she  saw 
the  man.  He  was  standing  against  the  wall  in  a 
line  of  men.  There  was  no  particular  reason  why  her 

419 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

eyes  should  single  him  out,  except  that  he  was  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  her  singing,  and,  indeed,  she  for- 
got him  altogether  afterwards. 

"I  just  happened  to  see  him  clearly  and  distinctly," 
she  said.  "He  was  tall,  clean-shaven,  rather  dark, 
not  particularly  young — thirty-five  or  so,  I  should  say 
— a  man  with  a  heavy  face  and  beginning  to  grow 
stout.  He  moved  away  whilst  I  was  bowing  to  the 
audience,  and  I  noticed  him  afterwards  walking  about, 
talking  to  people." 

"  Do  you  remember  to  whom  ?  " 

"No." 

"Did  he  notice  you,  do  you  think?" 

"I  am  sure  he  didn't,"  the  girl  replied  emphatically. 
"He  never  looked  at  the  stage  where  I  was  singing, 
and  he  never  looked  towards  me  afterwards." 

She  gave,  so  far  as  she  could  remember,  the  names 
of  such  guests  and  singers  as  she  knew  at  that  party. 
"And  that  is  all,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hanaud.  "It  is  perhaps  a 
good  deal.  But  it  is  perhaps  nothing  at  all." 

"You  will  let  me  hear  from  you?"  she  cried,  as 
she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Miss  Carew,  I  am  at  your  service,"  he  returned. 
She  gave  him  her  hand  timidly  and  he  took  it  cor- 
dially. For  Mr.  Ricardo  she  had  merely  a  bow,  a 
bow  which  recognised  that  he  distrusted  her  and  that 
she  had  no  right  to  be  offended.  Then  she  went,  and 
Hanaud  smiled  across  the  table  at  Ricardo. 

420 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "all  that  you  are  thinking  is  true 
enough.  A  man  who  slips  out  of  society  to  indulge 
a  passion  for  a  drug  in  greater  peace,  a  girl  who,  on 
her  own  confession,  tried  to  steal,  and,  to  crown  all, 
this  fantastic  story.  It  is  natural  to  disbelieve  every 
word  of  it.  But  we  disbelieved  before,  when  we  left 
Calladine's  lodging  in  the  Adelphi,  and  we  were  wrong. 
Let  us  be  warned." 

"You  have  an  idea?"  exclaimed  Ricardo. 

"Perhaps!"  said  Hanaud.  And  he  looked  down 
the  theatre  column  of  the  Times.  "Let  us  distract 
ourselves  by  going  to  the  theatre." 

"You  are  the  most  irritating  man!"  Mr.  Ricardo 
broke  out  impulsively.  "If  I  had  to  paint  your  por- 
trait, I  should  paint  you  with  your  finger  against  the 
side  of  your  nose,  saying  mysteriously:  *  I  know/  when 
you  know  nothing  at  all." 

Hanaud  made  a  schoolboy's  grimace.  "We  will  go 
and  sit  in  your  box  at  the  opera  to-night,"  he  said, 
"and  you  shall  explain  to  me  all  through  the  beauti- 
ful music  the  theory  of  the  tonic  sol-fa." 

They  reached  Covent  Garden  before  the  curtain 
rose.  Mr.  Ricardo's  box  was  on  the  lowest  tier  and 
next  to  the  omnibus  box. 

"We  are  near  the  stage,"  said  Hanaud,  as  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  corner  and  so  arranged  the  curtain  that 
he  could  see  and  yet  was  hidden  from  view.  "I  like 
that." 

The  theatre  was  full;  stalls  and  boxes  shimmered 
421 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

with  jewels  and  satin,  and  all  that  was  famous  that 
season  for  beauty  and  distinction  had  made  its  tryst 
there  that  night. 

"Yes,  this  is  wonderful,"  said  Hanaud.  "What 
opera  do  they  play?"  He  glanced  at  his  programme 
and  cried,  with  a  little  start  of  surprise:  "We  are  in 
luck.  It  is  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna." 

"Do  you  believe  in  omens?"  Mr.  Ricardo  asked 
coldly.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  rebuff  of 
the  afternoon. 

"No,  but  I  believe  that  Carmen  Valeri  is  at  her 
best  in  this  part,"  said  Hanaud. 

Mr.  Ricardo  belonged  to  that  body  of  critics  which 
must  needs  spoil  your  enjoyment  by  comparisons  and 
recollections  of  other  great  artists.  He  was  at  a  dis- 
advantage certainly  to-night,  for  the  opera  was  new. 
But  he  did  his  best.  He  imagined  others  in  the  part, 
and  when  the  great  scene  came  at  the  end  of  the 
second  act,  and  Carmen  Valeri,  on  obtaining  from 
her  lover  the  jewels  stolen  from  the  sacred  image,  gave 
such  a  display  of  passion  as  fairly  enthralled  that 
audience,  Mr.  Ricardo  sighed  quietly  and  patiently. 

"How  Calve  would  have  brought  out  the  psycho- 
logical value  of  that  scene!"  he  murmured;  and  he 
was  quite  vexed  with  Hanaud,  who  sat  with  his  opera 
glasses  held  to  his  eyes,  and  every  sense  apparently 
concentrated  on  the  stage.  The  curtains  rose  and  rose 
again  when  the  act  was  concluded,  and  still  Hanaud 

422 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

sat   motionless  as  the  Sphynx,    staring  through  his 
glasses. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Ricardo  when  the  curtains  fell 
for  the  fifth  time. 

"They  will  come  out,"  said  Hanaud.  "Wait!" 
And  from  between  the  curtains  Carmen  Valeri  was 
led  out  into  the  full  glare  of  the  footlights  with  the 
panoply  of  jewels  flashing  on  her  breast.  Then  at 
last  Hanaud  put  down  his  glasses  and  turned  to  Ri- 
cardo with  a  look  of  exultation  and  genuine  delight 
upon  his  face  which  filled  that  season-worn  dilettante 
with  envy. 

"  What  a  night ! "  said  Hanaud.  "  What  a  wonderful 
night ! "  And  he  applauded  until  he  split  his  gloves. 
At  the  end  of  the  opera  he  cried:  "We  will  go  and  take 
'  supper  at  the  Semiramis.  Yes,  my  friend,  we  will 
finish  our  evening  like  gallant  gentlemen.  Come! 
Let  us  not  think  of  the  morning."  And  boisterously 
he  slapped  Ricardo  hi  the  small  of  the  back. 

In  spite  of  his  boast,  however,  Hanaud  hardly 
touched  his  supper,  and  he  played  with,  rather  than 
drank,  his  brandy  and  soda.  He  had  a  little  table  to 
which  he  was  accustomed  beside  a  glass  screen  hi  the 
depths  of  the  room,  and  he  sat  with  his  back  to  the 
wall  watching  the  groups  which  poured  in.  Suddenly 
his  face  lighted  up. 

"Here  is  Carmen  Valeri!"  he  cried.  "Once  more 
we  are  in  luck.  Is  it  not  that  she  is  beautiful  ?  " 

423 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Mr.  Ricardo  turned  languidly  about  in  his  chair 
and  put  up  his  eyeglass. 

"So,  so,"  he  said. 

"Ah!"  returned  Hanaud.  "Then  her  companion 
will  interest  you  still  more.  For  he  is  the  man  who 
murdered  Mrs.  Blumenstein." 

Mr.  Ricardo  jumped  so  that  his  eyeglass  fell  down 
and  tinkled  on  its  cord  against  the  buttons  of  his 
waistcoat. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  impossible!"  He 
looked  again.  "Certainly  the  man  fits  Joan  Carew's 
description.  But —  He  turned  back  to  Hanaud  ut- 
terly astounded.  And  as  he  looked  at  the  French- 
man all  his  earlier  recollections  of  him,  of  his  swift 
deductions,  of  the  subtle  imagination  which  his  heavy 
body  so  well  concealed,  crowded  in  upon  Ricardo  and 
convinced  him. 

"How  long  have  you  known?"  he  asked  in  a  whis- 
per of  awe. 

"Since  ten  o'clock  to-night." 

"But  you  will  have  to  find  the  necklace  before  you 
can  prove  it." 

"The  necklace!"  said  Hanaud  carelessly.  "That  is 
already  found." 

Mr.  Ricardo  had  been  longing  for  a  thrill.  He  had 
it  now.  He  felt  it  in  his  very  spine. 

"It's  found?"  he  said  in  a  startled  whisper. 

"Yes." 

424 


Ricardo  turned  again,  with  as  much  indifference  as 
he  could  assume,  towards  the  couple  who  were  settling 
down  at  their  table,  the  man  with  a  surly  indifference, 
Carmen  Valeri  with  the  radiance  of  a  woman  who  has 
just  achieved  a  triumph  and  is  now  free  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  it.  Confusedly,  recollections  returned  to 
Ricardo  of  questions  put  that  afternoon  by  Hanaud 
to  Joan  Carew — subtle  questions  into  which  the  name 
of  Carmen  Valeri  was  continually  entering.  She  was 
a  woman  of  thirty,  certainly  beautiful,  with  a  clear, 
pale  face  and  eyes  like  the  night. 

"Then  she  is  implicated  tool"  he  said.  What  a 
change  for  her,  he  thought,  from  the  stage  of  Covent 
Garden  to  the  felon's  cell,  from  the  gay  supper-room 
of  the  Semiramis,  with  its  bright  frocks  and  its  babel 
of  laughter,  to  the  silence  and  the  ignominious  garb 
of  the  workrooms  in  Aylesbury  Prison  I 

"She!"  exclaimed  Hanaud;  and  in  his  passion  for 
the  contrasts  of  drama  Ricardo  was  almost  disap- 
pointed. "She  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it. 
She  knows  nothing.  Andre  Favart  there — yes.  But 
Carmen  Valeri  I  She's  as  stupid  as  an  owl,  and  loves 
him  beyond  words.  Do  you  want  to  know  how  stupid 
she  is?  You  shall  know.  I  asked  Mr.  Clements,  the 
director  of  the  opera  house,  to  take  supper  with  us, 
and  here  he  is." 

Hanaud  stood  up  and  shook  hands  with  the  director. 
He  was  of  the  world  of  business  rather  than  of  art, 

425 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

and  long  experience  of  the  ways  of  tenors  and  prima- 
donnas  had  given  him  a  good-humoured  cynicism. 

"  They  are  spoilt  children,  all  tantrums  and  vanity/' 
he  said,  "  and  they  would  rum  you  to  keep  a  rival  out 
of  the  theatre." 

He  told  them  anecdote  upon  anecdote. 

"And  Carmen  Valeri,"  Hanaud  asked  in  a  pause; 
"  is  she  troublesome  this  season  ?  "  . 

"Has  been,"  replied  Clements  dryly.  "At  present 
she  is  playing  at  being  good.  But  she  gave  me  a  turn 
some  weeks  ago."  He  turned  to  Ricardo.  "Super- 
stition's her  trouble,  and  Andre  Favart  knows  it.  She 
left  him  behind  in  America  this  spring." 

"America!"  suddenly  cried  Ricardo;  so  suddenly 
that  Clements  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"She  was  singing  in  New  York,  of  course,  during 
the  winter,"  he  returned.  "Well,  she  left  him  behind, 
and  I  was  shaking  hands  with  myself  when  he  began 
to  deal  the  cards  over  there.  She  came  to  me  in  a 
panic.  She  had  just  had  a  cable.  She  couldn't  sing 
on  Friday  night.  There  was  a  black  knave  next  to 
the  nine  of  diamonds.  She  wouldn't  sing  for  worlds. 
And  it  was  the  first  night  of  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna! 
Imagine  the  fix  I  was  in !" 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  Ricardo. 

"The  only  thing  there  was  to  do,"  replied  Clements 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  I  cabled  Favart  some 
money  and  he  dealt  the  cards  again.  She  came  to  me 

426 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

beaming.  Oh,  she  had  been  so  distressed  to  put  me 
in  the  cart!  But  what  could  she  do?  Now  there  was 
a  red  queen  next  to  the  ace  of  hearts,  so  she  could 
sing  without  a  scruple  so  long,  of  course,  as  she  didn't 
pass  a  funeral  on  the  way  down  to  the  opera  house. 
Luckily  she  didn't.  But  my  money  brought  Favart 
over  here,  and  now  I'm  living  on  a  volcano.  For  he's 
the  greatest  scoundrel  unhung.  He  never  has  a  far- 
thing, however  much  she  gives  him;  he's  a  blackmailer, 
he's  a  swindler,  he  has  no  manners  and  no  graces,  he 
looks  like  a  butcher  and  treats  her  as  if  she  were  dirt, 
he  never  goes  near  the  opera  except  when  she  is  sing- 
ing in  this  part,  and  she  worships  the  ground  he  walks 
on.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  time  to  go." 

The  lights  had  been  turned  off,  the  great  room  was 
emptying.  Mr.  Ricardo  and  his  friends  rose  to  go, 
but  at  the  door  Hanaud  detained  Mr.  Clements,  and 
they  talked  together  alone  for  some  little  while,  greatly 
to  Mr.  Ricardo's  annoyance.  Hanaud's  good  humour, 
however,  when  he  rejoined  his  friend,  was  enough  for 
two. 

"I  apologise,  my  friend,  with  my  hand  on  my  heart. 
But  it  was  for  your  sake  that  I  stayed  behind.  You 
have  a  meretricious  taste  for  melodrama  which  I 
deeply  deplore,  but  which  I  mean  to  gratify.  I  ought 
to  leave  for  Paris  to-morrow,  but  I  shall  not.  I  shall 
stay  until  Thursday."  And  he  skipped  upon  the 
pavement  as  they  walked  home  to  Grosvenor  Square. 

427 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Mr.  Ricardo  bubbled  with  questions,  but  he  knew 
his  man.  He  would  get  no  answer  to  any  one  of  them 
to-night.  So  he  worked  out  the  problem  for  himself 
as  he  lay  awake  in  his  bed,  and  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  next  morning  fatigued  but  triumphant. 
Hanaud  was  already  chipping  off  the  top  of  his  egg  at 
the  table. 

"So  I  see  you  have  found  it  all  out,  my  friend," 
he  said. 

"Not  all,"  replied  Ricardo  modestly,  "and  you  will 
not  mind,  I  am  sure,  if  I  follow  the  usual  custom  and 
wish  you  a  good  morning." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Hanaud.  "I  am  all  for  good 
manners  myself." 

He  dipped  his  spoon  into  his  egg. 

"  But  I  am  longing  to  hear  the  line  of  your  reasoning." 

Mr.  Ricardo  did  not  need  much  pressing. 

"Joan  Carew  saw  Andre  Favart  at  Mrs.  Starling- 
shield's  party,  and  saw  him  with  Carmen  Valeri. 
For  Carmen  Valeri  was  there.  I  remember  that  you 
asked  Joan  for  the  names  of  the  artists  who  sang, 
and  Carmen  Valeri  was  amongst  them." 

Hanaud  nodded  his  head. 

"Exactly." 

"No  doubt  Joan  Carew  noticed  Carmen  Valeri 
particularly,  and  so  took  unconsciously  into  her  mind 
an  impression  of  the  man  who  was  with  her,  Andre 
Favart — of  his  build,  of  his  walk,  of  his  type." 

428 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

Again  Hanaud  agreed. 

"She  forgets  the  man  altogether,  but  the  picture 
remains  latent  in  her  mind — an  undeveloped  film." 

Hanaud  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  the  surprise 
flattered  Mr.  Ricardo.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  tossed 
about  in  his  bed  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 

"Then  came  the  tragic  night  at  the  Semiramis. 
She  does  not  consciously  recognise  her  assailant,  but 
she  dreams  the  scene  again  and  again,  and  by  a  proc- 
ess of  unconscious  cerebration  the  figure  of  the  man 
becomes  familiar.  Finally  she  makes  her  debut,  is 
entertained  at  supper  afterwards,  and  meets  once 
more  Carmen  Valeri." 

"Yes,  for  the  first  time  since  Mrs.  Starlingshield's 
party,"  interjected  Hanaud. 

"She  dreams  again,  she  remembers  asleep  more 
than  she  remembers  when  awake.  The  presence  of 
Carmen  Valeri  at  her  supper-party  has  its  effect. 
By  a  process  of  association,  she  recalls  Favart,  and 
the  mask  slips  on  the  face  of  her  assailant.  Some 
days  later  she  goes  to  the  opera.  She  hears  Car- 
men Valeri  sing  in  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna.  No 
doubt  the  passion  of  her  acting,  which  I  am  more 
prepared  to  acknowledge  this  morning  than  I  was 
last  night,  affects  Joan  Carew  powerfully,  emotionally. 
She  goes  to  bed  with  her  head  full  of  Carmen  Valeri, 
and  she  dreams  not  of  Carmen  Valeri,  but  of  the  man 
who  is  unconsciously  associated  with  Carmen  Valeri 

429 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

in  her  thoughts.  The  mask  vanishes  altogether.  She 
sees  her  assailant  now,  has  his  portrait  limned  in  her 
mind,  would  know  him  if  she  met  him  in  the  street, 
though  she  does  not  know  by  what  means  she  identi- 
fied him." 

"Yes,"  said  Hanaud.  "It  is  curious  the  brain 
working  while  the  body  sleeps,  the  dream  revealing 
what  thought  cannot  recall." 

Mr.  Ricardo  was  delighted.    He  was  taken  seriously. 

"But  of  course,"  he  said,  "I  could  not  have  worked 
the  problem  out  but  for  you.  You  knew  of  Andre 
Favart  and  the  kind  of  man  he  was." 

Hanaud  laughed. 

"Yes.  That  is  always  my  one  little  advantage.  I 
know  all  the  cosmopolitan  blackguards  of  Europe." 
His  laughter  ceased  suddenly,  and  he  brought  his 
clenched  fist  heavily  down  upon  the  table.  "Here 
is  one  of  them  who  will  be  very  well  out  of  the  world, 
my  friend,"  he  said  very  quietly,  but  there  was  a 
look  of  force  in  his  face  and  a  hard  light  in  his  eyes 
which  made  Mr.  Ricardo  shiver. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence.  Then  Ricardo 
asked:  "But  have  you  evidence  enough?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  two  chief  witnesses,  Calladine  and  Joan 
Carew — you  said  it  yourself — there  are  facts  to  dis- 
credit them.  Will  they  be  believed?" 

"But  they  won't  appear  in  the  case  at  all,"  Ha- 
430 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

naud  said.  "  Wait,  wait !"  and  once  more  he  smiled. 
"By  the  way,  what  is  the  number  of  Calladine's 
house?'* 

Ricardo  gave  it,  and  Hanaud  therefore  wrote  a 
letter.  "It  is  all  for  your  sake,  my  friend,"  he  said 
with  a  chuckle. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Ricardo.  "You  have  the  spirit 
of  the  theatre  in  your  bones." 

"Well,  I  shall  not  deny  it,"  said  Hanaud,  and  he 
sent  out  the  letter  to  the  nearest  pillar-box. 

Mr.  Ricardo  waited  in  a  fever  of  impatience  until 
Thursday  came.  At  breakfast  Hanaud  would  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  news  of  the  day.  At  luncheon  he  was 
no  better.  The  affair  of  the  Semiramis  Hotel  seemed 
a  thousand  miles  from  any  of  his  thoughts.  But  at 
five  o'clock  he  said  as  he  drank  his  tea: 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  we  go  to  the  opera 
to-night?" 

"Yes.    Do  we?" 

"Yes.  Your  young  friend  Calladine,  by  the  way, 
will  join  us  in  your  box." 

"That  is  very  kind  of  him,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr. 
Ricardo. 

The  two  men  arrived  before  the  rising  of  the  cur- 
tain, and  in  the  crowded,  lobby  a  stranger  spoke  a 
few  words  to  Hanaud,  but  what  he  said  Ricardo  could 
not  hear.  They  took  their  seats  in  the  box,  and  Ha- 
naud looked  at  his  programme. 

431 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

"  Ah !  It  is  //  Ballo  de  Maschera  to-night.  We  al- 
ways seem  to  hit  upon  something  appropriate,  don't 
we?" 

Then  he  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Oh-o!  Do  you  see  that  our  pretty  young  friend, 
Joan  Carew,  is  singing  in  the  role  of  the  page  ?  It  is 
a  showy  part.  There  is  a  particular  melody  with  a 
long-sustained  trill  in  it,  as  far  as  I  remember." 

Mr.  Ricardo  was  not  deceived  by  Hanaud's  ap- 
parent ignorance  of  the  opera  to  be  given  that  night 
and  of  the  part  Joan  Carew  was  to  take.  He  was, 
therefore,  not  surprised  when  Hanaud  added: 

"By  the  way,  I  should  let  Calladine  find  it  all  out 
for  himself." 

Mr.  Ricardo  nodded  sagely. 

"Yes.  That  is  wise.  I  had  thought  of  it  myself." 
But  he  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  was  only 
aware  that  the  elaborate  stage-management  in  which 
Hanaud  delighted  was  working  out  to  the  desired 
climax,  whatever  that  climax  might  be.  Calladine 
entered  the  box  a  few  minutes  later  and  shook  hands 
with  them  awkwardly. 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  invite  me,"  he  said  and, 
very  ill  at  ease,  he  took  a  seat  between  them  and 
concentrated  his  attention  on  the  house  as  it  filled 
up. 

"There's  the  overture,"  said  Hanaud.  The  cur- 
tains divided  and  were  festooned  on  either  side  of  the 

432 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

stage.  The  singers  came  on  in  their  turn;  the  page 
appeared  to  a  burst  of  delicate  applause  (Joan  Carew 
had  made  a  small  name  for  herself  that  season),  and 
with  a  stifled  cry  Calladine  shot  back  in  the  box  as 
if  he  had  been  struck.  Even  then  Mr.  Ricardo  did 
not  understand.  He  only  realised  that  Joan  Carew 
was  looking  extraordinarily  trim  and  smart  in  her 
boy's  dress.  He  had  to  look  from  his  programme  to 
the  stage  and  back  again  several  times  before  the 
reason  of  Calladine's  exclamation  dawned  on  him. 
When  it  did,  he  was  horrified.  Hanaud,  in  his  craving 
for  dramatic  effects,  must  have  lost  hio  head  alto- 
gether. Joan  Carew  was  wearing,  from  the  ribbon  in 
her  hair  to  the  scarlet  heels  of  her  buckled  satin  shoes, 
the  same  dress  as  she  had  worn  on  the  tragic  night  at 
the  Semiramis  Hotel.  He  leaned  forward  in  his  agita- 
tion to  Hanaud. 

"You  must  be  mad.  Suppose  Favart  is  in  the 
theatre  and  sees  her.  He'll  be  over  on  the  Continent 
by  one  in  the  morning." 

"No,  he  won't,"  replied  Hanaud.  "For  one  thing, 
he  never  comes  to  Covent  Garden  unless  one  opera, 
with  Carmen  Valeri  in  the  chief  part,  is  being  played, 
as  you  heard  the  other  night  at  supper.  For  a  second 
thing,  he  isn't  in  the  house.  I  know  where  he  is.  He 
is  gambling  in  Dean  Street,  Soho.  For  a  third  thing, 
my  friend,  he  couldn't  leave  by  the  nine  o'clock  train 
for  the  Continent  if  he  wanted  to.  Arrangements 

433 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

have  been  made.  For  a  fourth  thing,  he  wouldn't 
wish  to.  He  has  really  remarkable  reasons  for  de- 
siring to  stay  in  London.  But  he  will  come  to  the 
theatre  later.  Clements  will  send  him  an  urgent 
message,  with  the  result  that  he  will  go  straight  to 
Clements'  office.  Meanwhile,  we  can  enjoy  ourselves, 
eh?" 

Never  was  the  difference  between  the  amateur 
dilettante  and  the  genuine  professional  more  clearly 
exhibited  than  by  the  behaviour  of  the  two  men  during 
the  rest  of  the  performance.  Mr.  Ricardo  might  have 
been  sitting  on  a  coal  fire  from  his  jumps  and  twist- 
ings;  Hanaud  stolidly  enjoyed  the  music,  and  when 
Joan  Carew  sang  her  famous  solo  his  hands  clamoured 
for  an  encore  louder  than  anyone's  in  the  boxes. 
Certainly,  whether  excitement  was  keeping  her  up 
or  no,  Joan  Carew  had  never  sung  better  in  her  life. 
Her  voice  was  clear  and  fresh  as  a  bird's — a  bird  with 
a  soul  inspiring  its  song.  Even  Calladine  drew  his 
chair  forward  again  and  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  stage  and  quite  carried  out  of  himself.  He  drew  a 
deep  breath  at  the  end. 

"She  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  like  a  man  waking  up. 

"She  is  very  good,"  replied  Mr.  Ricardo,  correcting 
Calladine's  transports. 

"We  will  go  round  to  the  back  of  the  stage,"  said 
Hanaud. 

They  passed  through  the  iron  door  and  across  the 
434 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

stage  to  a  long  corridor  with  a  row  of  doors  on  one 
side.  There  were  two  or  three  men  standing  about  in 
evening  dress,  as  if  waiting  for  friends  in  the  dressing- 
rooms.  At  the  third  door  Hanaud  stopped  and 
knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  Joan  Carew,  still 
dressed  in  her  green  and  gold.  Her  face  was  troubled, 
her  eyes  afraid. 

"Courage,  little  one,"  said  Hanaud,  and  he  slipped 
past  her  into  the  room.  "It  is  as  well  that  my  ugly, 
familiar  face  should  not  be  seen  too  soon." 

The  door  closed  and  one  of  the  strangers  loitered 
along  the  corridor  and  spoke  to  a  call-boy.  The  call- 
boy  ran  off.  For  five  minutes  more  Mr.  Ricardo 
waited  with  a  beating  heart.  He  had  the  joy  of  a 
man  in  the  centre  of  things.  All  those  people  driving 
homewards  in  their  motor-cars  along  the  Strand — 
how  he  pitied  them !  Then,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
he  saw  Clements  and  Andre  Favart.  They  approached, 
discussing  the  possibility  of  Carmen  Valeri's  appear- 
ance in  London  opera  during  the  next  season. 

"We  have  to  look  ahead,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Clements,  "and  though  I  should  be  extremely 
sorry " 

At  that  moment  they  were  exactly  opposite  Joan 
Carew's  door.  It  opened,  she  came  out;  with  a  nervous 
movement  she  shut  the  door  behind  her.  At  the  sound 
Andre  Favart  turned,  and  he  saw  drawn  up  against 
the  panels  of  the  door,  with  a  look  of  terror  in  her 

435 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

face,  the  same  gay  figure  which  had  interrupted  him 
in  Mrs.  Blumenstein's  bedroom.  There  was  no  need 
for  Joan  to  act.  In  the  presence  of  this  man  her  fear 
was  as  real  as  it  had  been  on  the  night  of  the  Semir- 
amis  ball.  She  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Her 
eyes  closed;  she  seemed  about  to  swoon. 

Favart  stared  and  uttered  an  oath.  His  face  turned 
white;  he  staggered  back  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 
Then  he  made  a  wild  dash  along  the  corridor,  and 
was  seized  and  held  by  two  of  the  men  in  evening 
dress.  Favart  recovered  his  wits.  He  ceased  to 
struggle. 

"What  does  this  outrage  mean?"  he  asked,  and 
one  of  the  men  drew  a  warrant  and  notebook  from  his 
pocket. 

"You  are  arrested  for  the  murder  of  Mrs.  Blumen- 
stein  in  the  Semiramis  Hotel,"  he  said,  "and  I  have 
to  warn  you  that  anything  you  may  say  will  be  taken 
down  and  may  be  used  in  evidence  against  you." 

"Preposterous!"  exclaimed  Favart.  "There's  a 
mistake.  We  will  go  along  to  the  police  and  put  it 
right.  WTiere's  your  evidence  against  me  ?  " 

Hanaud  stepped  out  of  the  doorway  of  the  dressing- 
room. 

"In  the  property-room  of  the  theatre,"  he  said. 

At  the  sight  of  him  Favart  uttered  a  violent  cry  of 
rage.  "You  are  here,  too,  are  you?"  he  screamed, 
and  he  sprang  at  Hanaud's  throat.  Hanaud  stepped 

436 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

lightly  aside.  Favart  was  borne  down  to  the  ground, 
and  when  he  stood  up  again  the  handcuffs  were  on  his 
wrists. 

Favart  was  led  away,  and  Hanaud  turned  to  Mr. 
Ricardo  and  Clements. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  property-room,"  he  said.  They 
passed  along  the  corridor,  and  Ricardo  noticed  that 
Calladine  was  no  longer  with  them.  He  turned  and 
saw  him  standing  outside  Joan  Carew's  dressing-room. 

"He  would  like  to  come,  of  course,"  said  Ricardo. 

"Would  he?"  asked  Hanaud.  "Then  why  doesn't 
he?  He's  quite  grown  up,  you  know,"  and  he  slipped 
his  arm  through  Ricardo's  and  led  him  back  across 
the  stage.  In  the  property-room  there  was  already 
a  detective  in  plain  clothes.  Mr.  Ricardo  had  still 
not  as  yet  guessed  the  truth. 

"What  is  it  you  really  want,  sir?"  the  property- 
master  asked  of  the  director. 

"Only  the  jewels  of  the  Madonna,"  Hanaud  an- 
swered. 

The  property-master  unlocked  a  cupboard  and  took 
from  it  the  sparkling  cuirass.  Hanaud  pointed  to  it, 
and  there,  lost  amongst  the  huge  glittering  stones  of 
paste  and  false  pearls,  Mrs.  Blumenstein's  necklace 
was  entwined. 

"Then  that  is  why  Favart  came  always  to  Covent 
Garden  when  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna  was  being 
performed!"  exclaimed  Ricardo. 

437 


Hanaud  nodded. 

"He  came  to  watch  over  his  treasure." 

Ricardo  was  piecing  together  the  sections  of  the 
puzzle. 

"No  doubt  he  knew  of  the  necklace  in  America. 
No  doubt  he  followed  it  to  England." 

Hanaud  agreed. 

"Mrs.  Blumenstein's  jewels  were  quite  famous  in 
New  York." 

"But  to  hide  them  here!"  cried  Mr.  Clements. 
"He  must  have  been  mad." 

"Why?"  asked  Hanaud.  "Can  you  imagine  a 
safer  hiding-place?  Who  is  going  to  burgle  the  prop- 
erty-room of  Covent  Garden?  Who  is  going  to  look 
for  a  priceless  string  of  pearls  amongst  the  stage  jewels 
of  an  opera  house?" 

"You  did,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo. 

"I?"  replied  Hanaud,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"Joan  Carew's  dreams  led  me  to  Andre  Favart.  The 
first  time  we  came  here  and  saw  the  pearls  of  the 
Madonna,  I  was  on  the  look-out,  naturally.  I  no- 
ticed Favart  at  the  back  of  the  stalls.  But  it  was  a 
stroke  of  luck  that  I  noticed  those  pearls  through  my 
opera  glasses." 

"At  the  end  of  the  second  act?"  cried  Ricardo 
suddenly.  "I  remember  now." 

"Yes,"  replied  Hanaud.  "But  for  that  second  act 
the  pearls  would  have  stayed  comfortably  here  all 

438 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  SEMIRAMIS  HOTEL 

through  the  season.  Carmen  Valeri — a  fool  as  I  told 
you — would  have  tossed  them  about  in  her  dressing- 
room  without  a  notion  of  their  value,  and  at  the  end 
of  July,  when  the  murder  at  the  Semiramis  Hotel  had 
been  forgotten,  Favart  would  have  taken  them  to 
Amsterdam  and  made  his  bargain." 

"Shall  we  go?" 

They  left  the  theatre  together  and  walked  down  to 
the  grill-room  of  the  Semiramis.  But  as  Hanaud 
looked  through  the  glass  door  he  drew  back. 

"We  will  not  go  in,  I  think,  eh  ?" 

"Why?"  asked  Ricardo. 

Hanaud  pointed  to  a  table.  Calladine  and  Joan 
Carew  were  seated  at  it  taking  their  supper. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Hanaud  with  a  smile,  "perhaps, 
my  friend — what?  Who  shall  say  that  the  rooms  in 
the  Adelphi  will  not  be  given  up  ?  " 

They  turned  away  from  the  hotel.  But  Hanaud 
was  right,  and  before  the  season  was  over  Mr.  Ricardo 
had  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  a  wedding 
present. 


439 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL* 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  on  a  night  in  sum- 
mer at  the  foot  of  Bignor  Hill  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Sussex  Downs.  The  time  is  that  of  the  Roman  occu- 
pation of  England.  In  the  foreground  is  an  open  space 
of  turf  surrounded  with  gorse-bushes.  The  turf  rises 
in  a  steep  bank  at  the  back  and  melts  into  the  side  of 
the  hill.  The  left  of  the  stage  is  closed  in  by  a  wooded 
spur  of  the  hill.  The  scene  is  wild  and  revealed  by  a 
strong  moonlight.  A  fallen  tree-trunk  lies  on  the  right, 
and  a  raised  bank  is  at  the  left  of  the  stage. 

On  the  summit  of  the  hill  the  glow  of  a  camp-fire  is 
seen,  and  from  time  to  time  a  flame  leaps  up  as  though 
fuel  had  been  added.  Towards  the  end  of  the  play  the 
fire  dies  down  and  goes  out. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  stage  is  empty,  but  a 
sound  of  men  marching  is  faintly  heard.  The  sound  is 
heard  in  pauses  throughout  the  first  part  of  the  play. 

[Gleva  enters  from  the  R.  She  is  a  British 
princess,  clothed  in  skins.  But  she  has  added 
to  her  dress  some  of  the  refinements  of  the  con- 
querors— a  shirt  of  fine  linen,  the  high  sandals 
of  the  Roman  lady,  the  Roman  comb  in  her  hair, 

*  Acting  rights  of  this  play  are  reserved. 
443 


some  jewellery,  a  necklace  of  stones,  and  brace- 
lets.   She  is  foUowed  by  three  men  of  her  tribe, 
wild  men  in  skins,  armed  with  knives,  and  flint 
axes  carried  at  the  waist.     Gleva  comes  for- 
ward silently  into  the  open  space  of  turf.] 
GLEVA:  No  one! 
BRAN:  The  trumpet  has  not  sounded  the  last  call  on 

the  hill. 

GLEVA:  No.    Yet  the  hour  for  it  is  past.    By  now 
the  camp  should  be  asleep.     (She  looks  up  the  hill 
and  then  turns  to  her  men.)    Be  ready  to  light  the 
torch. 
CARANSIUS:  Everything  is  strange  to-day. 

[He  sits  R.  under  the  shelter  of  a  bush,  and  with 
a  flint  and  steel  kindles  a  tiny  flame  during  the 
following  scene.  He  has  a  torch  in  his  hand 
which  he  lays  by  his  side.  When  the  fire  is 
lighted  he  blows  on  it  from  time  to  time  to  keep 
it  alight.] 

BRAN:  Yes.    And  yesterday.    For  many  months  we 
have  been  left  in  quiet.    Now  once  more  the  sol- 
diers march  through  Anderida. 
GLEVA  (holds  up  her  hand) :  Listen ! 

[A  pause.     The  sound  of  marching  is  heard 
quite  clearly,  but  at  a  distance.] 
BRAN:  It  does  not  stop,  Princess. 
GLEVA:  All   yesterday,   all   through   last   night,    all 
through  this  long  day !    Listen  to  it,  steady  as  a 
444 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

heart  beating,  steady  and  terrible.  (She  speaks 
with  great  discouragement,  moving  apart,  L.,  and 
sitting  on  tree  bole.} 

CARANSIUS  (lighting  fi.re) :  I  crept  to  the  edge  of  the 
forest  to-day.  I  lay  very  quiet  behind  the  bushes 
and  looked  out  across  the  clearing  to  the  road. 

GLEVA:  You! 

[A  general  exclamation  of  astonishment.] 

CARANSIUS:  Oh,  it's  not  easy  to  frighten  me,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  fought  at  Verulanium  with  the  Iceni. 
I  know.  I  carried  a  sling.  (He  nods  majestically 
at  his  companions.}  And  there  you  have  it. 

GLEVA:  Yes,  yes,  good  friend.    But  which  way  did  the 
soldiers  march?    What  of  the  road? 
[She  goes  over  to  him.] 

CARANSIUS:  Mistress,  there  wasn't  any  road.  There 
were  only  soldiers.  As  far  as  my  eyes  could  see, 
bright  helmets  and  brown  faces  and  flashing  shoul- 
der plates  bobbing  up  and  down  between  the  trees 
and  a  smother  of  dust  until  my  head  whirled. 

BRAN  AND  BOTH  ATTENDANTS:  Oh! 

GLEVA:  But  which  way  did  they  go? 

CARANSIUS:  I  lost  my  dog,  too — the  brute.  He  ran 
from  me  and  joined  the  marching  men.  I  dared 
not  call  to  him. 

BRAN:  Yes,  that  is  the  way  of  dogs. 

GLEVA:  Did  they  go  north  towards  the  Wall?  (She 
shakes  him.} 

445 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

CARANSIUS  (who  has  been  blowing  on  the  fire,  now  sits  up 
comfortably  and  smiles  upon  Gleva,  who  is  tortured 
with  impatience):  God  bless  you,  mistress,  there 
isn't  any  Wall.  I  know  about  the  Romans;  I 
know !  I  fought  at  Verulanium.  Now ! 

[Gleva  turns  away  in  despair  of  getting  any  sense 
out  of  him.  A  trumpet  sounds  on  the  top  of  Big- 
nor  Hill,  faintly.    All  turn  swiftly  towards  it.] 
GLEVA:  Ready! 

[A  sound  of  armed  men  moving,  a  clash  of 
shields  is  heard  from  the  top  of  Bignor  Hill.] 
Now  fire  the  torch.  Give  it  me !  (She  springs  on 
to  the  bank  and  waves  it  three  times  from  side  to  side, 
steps  down,  and  gives  it  back  to  an  attendant,  who 
puts  it  out.) 

CARANSIUS  (continuing  placidly) :  No,  there's  no  Wall. 
There  are  a  great  many  mistakes  made  about  the 
Romans.  They  are  no  longer  the  men  they  were. 
I  carried  a  sling  at  Verulanium,  and  there  you  have 
it.  I'll  tell  you  something.  The  soldiers  were 
marching  to  Regnum. 
GLEVA:  To  Regnum?  Are  you  sure? 
CARANSIUS:  Yes.  Up  over  the  great  Down  they  went. 
I  saw  their  armour  amongst  the  trees  on  the  side 
of  the  hill,  and  the  smoke  of  their  marching  on  the 
round  bare  top. 

GLEVA:  They  were  going  to  Regnum  and  the  sea. 
(She  speaks  in  despair.) 
446 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

THIRD  ATTENDANT:  I  am  afraid. 

GLEVA  (turns  on  him  scornfully):  You!    Why  should 

you  fear  if  they  are  marching  to  the  sea? 
THIRD   ATTENDANT:  I  have  been  afraid  ever  since 

yesterday.    The  noise  of  the  marching  scattered 

my  wits. 

[Gleva  and  the  others  laugh  contemptuously.] 

And  because  I  was  afraid — I  killed.     (A  low  cry 

of  consternation  bursts  from  Bran  and  Caransius.) 
BRAN:  Madman!    Madman! 
GLEVA:  You  killed  one  of  the  Romans! 
THIRD  ATTENDANT  (stands  before  her):  I  was  afraid. 

It  was  by  the  old  forge  in  the  forest.    There's  a 

brook  by  the  forge. 
BRAN:  Yes. 
THIRD  ATTENDANT:  He  had  fallen  out  of  the  ranks. 

He  was  stooping  over  the  brook.    I  saw  the  sun 

sparkle  upon  his  helmet  as  he  dipped  it  into  the 

water,  and  his  strong,  brown  neck  as  he  raised  it. 

I  crept  close  to  him  and  struck  at  his  neck  as  he 

drank. 

CARANSIUS:  That  was  a  good  stroke. 
BRAN:  A  mad  stroke. 
THIRD  ATTENDANT:  He  fell  over  without  a  cry,  and  ail 

his  armour  rattled  once. 
BRAN:  It  will  be  the  fire  for  our  barns,  and  death  for 

every  tenth  man  of  the  tribe. 
THIRD  ATTENDANT:  No  one  saw. 

447 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

GLEVA:  Stand  here! 

[The  third  attendant  stands  before  her.] 
I  gave  an  order. 

CARANSIUS:  Yet,  mistress,  it  is  better  to  strike  against 
orders  than  to  leave  one's  friends  and,  like  my  dog, 
follow  the  marching  men. 

[A  cry  bursts  from  Bran.    He  seizes  Caransius. 
Gleva  stands  with  her  hand  upon  her  knife. 
Then  she  turns  away,  and  buries  her  face  in  her 
hands.    A  whistle  is  heard  from  the  hillside 
above  her  on  the  left.    She  looks  up,  and  her 
face  changes.     She  turns  to  third  attendant.] 
GLEVA:  Go  up  the  hill — close  to  the  camp,  as  close  as 
you  can  creep,  and  watch.    So  may  you  earn  your 
pardon.     (He  goes  off.)    You  two  stand  aside — 
but  not  so  far  but  that  a  cry  may  bring  you  in- 
stantly. 
BRAN:  We  will  be  ready.     (Exeunt  R.) 

[Gleva  faces  the  spur  of  the  hill  on  her  left  as  if 
all  her  world  was  there.  There  is  a  movement 
among  the  trees  on  tJie  spur,  a  flash  of  armour 
in  the  moonlight,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  trees 
appears  Quintus  Calpurnius  Aulus,  a  Captain 
about  thirty-five  years  old,  handsome,  but  in 
repose  his  face  is  stern  and  inscrutable.  He  is 
active,  lithe,  self -confident.  He  comes  out  into 
the  open  just  below  the  trees,  and  stands  quite 
still.  His  very  attitude  should  suggest  strength.] 
448 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

QUINTUS:  I  am  here.  (He  speaks  with  the  voice  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  command,  and  to  have  his  orders 
obeyed  without  question.  Gleva  stands  erect  question- 
ing his  authority.  Then  she  crosses  her  hands  upon 
her  bosom  and  bows  her  head.) 
GLEVA:  My  Lord  Calpurnius. 

[Calpurnitis  laughs.    He  runs  down  the  slope.] 
CALPURNIUS:  That's  well.     (He  takes  her  in  his  arms.) 
You  have  a  trick  of  saying  "  Calpurnius."    I  shall 
remember  it  till  I  die. 

[Gleva  draws  away  from  him.] 
Say  it  again. 

GLEVA:  With  all  my  soul  in  the  word.    It  is  a  prayer. 
Calpurnius ! 

[Calpurnius  is  moved  by  the  passion  of  her  voice. 
He  takes  her  hands  in  his.] 
CALPURNIUS:  Yes.    I  shall  remember  till  I  die.    (They 

move  towards  the  bank.) 
GLEVA:  My  lord  is  late  to-night. 
CALPURNIUS:    Late!     A    Roman    soldier    of   fifteen 
years'  service  late.    My  dear,  let  us  talk  sense. 
Come! 

[The  trumpet  sounds  again  from  the  hill.    Cal- 
purnius stops.] 

GLEVA:  Why  does  the  trumpet  sound? 
CALPURNIUS:  To  call  some  straggler  back  to  Rome. 
GLEVA:  Rome!    (With  a  cry.) 
CALPURNIUS:  Yes.    For  every  one  of  us,  the  camp  on 

449 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

the  empty  hill-top  there  is  Rome,  and  all  Rome's 
in  the  trumpet  call. 

GLEVA:  Is  the  sound  so  strange  and  moving? 

CALPURNIUS:  Yes.  Most  strange,  most  moving.  For 
I  know  that  at  this  actual  minute  every  Roman 
soldier  on  guard  throughout  the  world  has  the 
sound  of  it  in  his  ears,  here  in  the  forest  of  Anderida, 
far  away  on  some  fortress  wall  in  Syria.  ( Throws 
off  his  seriousness.}  But  I  am  talking  of  sacred 
things,  and  that  one  should  be  shy  to  do.  Come, 
Gleva.  We  have  little  tune.  When  the  moon 
touches  those  trees  I  climb  again. 

GLEVA:  Yet,  my  lord,  for  one  more  moment  think  of 
me  not  as  the  foolish,  conquered  slave.  Listen ! 
Turn  your  head  this  way  and  listen. 

CALPURNIUS:  What  shall  I  hear?  Some  nightingale 
pouring  out  love  upon  a  moonlit  night?  He'll 
not  say  "Calpurnius"  with  so  sweet  a  note  as  you. 

GLEVA:  You'll  hear  no  nightingale,  nor  any  sound 
that  has  one  memory  of  me  in  it.  Listen,  you'll 
hear — all  Rome. 

[He  looks  at  her  quickly.    In  the  pause  is  heard 
the  sound  of  men  marching.} 
That  speaks  louder  than  the  trumpets. 

[He  is  very  still.] 

Calpurnius!     (She  sits  by  him,  and  puts  an  arm 
about  his  shoulder.    She  speaks  his  name  a#  if  she 
were  afraid.)    The  Romans  flee  from  Britain. 
450 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

CALPURNIUS  (with  a  start  of  contempt) :  Madness !  It's 
one  legion  going  home.  Another,  with  its  rest 
still  to  earn,  will  take  its  place. 

GLEVA:  Which  legion  goes? 

CALPURNIUS:  How  should  I  know?  (A  pause.)  The 
Valeria  Victrix. 

GLEVA:  Yours!  (She  starts  away  from  him.)  Calpur- 
nius,  yours! 

CALPURNIUS:  Yes,  mine.  My  legion  goes  to  Rome. 
(His  voice  thrills  with  eagerness.  He  has  been 
troubled  through  the  scene  how  he  shall  break  the 
news.  Now  it  is  out,  he  cannot  conceal  his  joy.) 

GLEVA:  But  you — you  stay  behind. 

CALPURNIUS  (gently) :  This  is  our  last  night  together. 
Let  us  not  waste  it.  Never  was  there  a  night  so 
made  for  love.  (He  draws  her  towards  him.) 

GLEVA:  You  go  with  your  legion? 

CALPURNIUS:  Before  the  dawn. 

GLEVA:  It's  impossible.    No.    You'll  stay  behind. 

CALPURNIUS:  No. 

GLEVA:  Listen  to  me.    You  shall  be  King  with  me. 

CALPURNIUS  (in  a  burst  of  contempt) :  King  here !  In 
the  forests  of  Britain !  I ! 

GLEVA:  Yes.  You'll  lie  quiet  here.  I  by  your  side. 
Your  hand  in  mine.  See !  We'll  forget  the  hours. 
The  dawn  will  come. 

CALPURNIUS:  And  find  me  a  traitor  I 

GLEVA:  I  am  already  one.  There  was  a  servant  with 

451 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

me.  He  told  me  I  was  like  a  dog  that  leaves  its 
own  people  to  follow  the  marching  men. 

CALPURNIUS  (sits  up) :  And  you  let  him  live,  with  this 
knife  ready  in  your  girdle? 

GLEVA:  He  spoke  the  truth. 

CALPURNIUS:  The  truth!  (Contemptuously.}  There's 
a  word  for  you !  Child !  There's  a  greater  thing 
in  the  world  than  truth.  Truth  wins  no  battles. 

GLEVA:  What's  this  greater  thing? 

CALPURNIUS:  Discipline!    You  should  have  struck. 

GLEVA:  I  wish  I  had.  For  he  might  have  struck 
back. 

CALPURNIUS:  Discipline!    So  I  go  with  my  legion. 

GLEVA  (with  a  cry  accusingly') :  You  want  to  go. 

CALPURNIUS  (springs  up) :  By  all  the  gods  I  do.  For 
ten  years  I  have  toiled  in  Britain  building  roads — 
roads — roads — till  I'm  sick  of  them.  First  the 
pounded  earth,  then  the  small  stones,  next  the 
rubble,  then  the  concrete,  and  last  of  all  the  pave- 
ment; here  in  Anderida,  there  across  the  swamps 
to  Londinium,  northwards  through  the  fens  to 
Eboracum — ten  years  of  it.  And  now — Rome — 
the  mother  of  me ! 

GLEVA:  Rome?  (She  speaks  despairingly.  Calpur- 
nius  has  forgotten  her :  he  answers  her  voice,  not 
her.) 

CALPURNIUS:  Just  for  a  little  while.  Oh,  I  shall  go 
out  again,  but  just  for  a  little  while — to  rise  when 
452 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

I  want  to,  not  at  the  trumpet's  call,  the  house  all 
quiet  till  I  clap  my  hands — to  have  one's  mornings 
free — to  saunter  through  the  streets,  picking  up 
the  last  new  thing  of  Juvenal  in  the  Argiletum,  or 
some  fine  piece  of  Corinthian  bronze  in  the  Cam- 
pus Martius,  and  stopping  on  the  steps  of  the 
Appian  Way  to  send  a  basket  of  flowers  or  a  bottle 
of  new  scent  to  some  girl  that  has  caught  one's 
fancy.  To  go  to  the  theatre,  and  see  the  new 
play,  though,  to  be  sure,  people  write  to  me  that 
there  are  no  plays  nowadays. 

GLEVA:  Plays? 

CALPURNIUS:  And  in  the  evening  with  a  party  of 
girls  in  their  bravest,  all  without  a  care,  to  gallop 
in  the  cool  along  the  Appian  Way  to  Baiae  and 
crowned  with  roses  and  violets  have  supper  by 
the  sea.  Oh,  to  see  one's  women  again — Lydia'll 
be  getting  on,  by  the  way! — women  dressed, 
jewelled,  smelling  of  violets.  Oh,  just  for  a  little 
while !  By  Castor  and  Pollux,  I  have  deserved  it. 

GLEVA  (who  has  been  listening  in  grief) :  Yes,  you  must 
go.  (She  goes  to  him  and  sits  at  his  side.}  I  have 
a  plan. 

CALPURNIUS:  Yes.     (Absently.) 

GLEVA  :  Listen  to  me ! — Calpurnius. 

[He  laughs  affectionately  at  her  pronunciation 
of  his  name.] 

CALPURNIUS:  Let  me  hear  this  wise  plan! 

453 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

GLEVA:  I  will  go  with  you. 
CALPURNIUS  (rising):  What? 

[Gleva  pulls  him  down.] 
GLEVA:  Yes,  I'll  give  up  my  kingdom  here,  sacrifice  it 

all,  and  go  to  Rome  with  you.    Calpurnius  (in  a 

whisper),  I'll  be  your  Lydia.    Oh,  to  drive  with 

you  on  such  a  night  as  this,  all  crowned  with  roses, 

from  Rome  to  Baiae  on  the  sea. 
CALPURNIUS:  These  are  dreams. 
GLEVA     (passionately) :  Why  ?      Why  ?      Are    these 

women  in  Rome  more  beautiful  than  I?    Look! 

(She  rises.)    I   can   dress,   too,   as  the   Roman 

women  do.    I  wear  the  combs  you  gave  me.    I 

don't  think  they  are  pretty,  but  I  wear  them. 

See,  I  wear,  too,  the  sandals,  the  bracelets. 
CALPURNIUS:  No.    There  are  no  women  in  Rome 

more  beautiful  than  you — but — but 

GLEVA  (att  her  passion  dying  away):  You  would  be 

ashamed  of  me. 

[Calpurnius  is  uncomfortable.] 
CALPURNIUS:  You  would  be — unusual.    People  would 

turn    and    stare.    Other    women    would    laugh. 

Some  scribbler  would  write  a  lampoon.    Oh,  you 

are  beautiful,  but  this  is  your  place,  not  Rome. 

Each  to  his  own  in  the  end,  Gleva.    I  to  Rome — 

you  to  your  people. 
GLEVA:  My  people!    Oh,  you  did  right  to  laugh  at 

the  thought  of  reigning  here.    What  are  my  peo- 
454 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

pie?  Slaves  for  your  pleasure.  It  can't  be! 
You  to  Rome,  the  lights,  the  women — oh,  how  I 
hate  them !  You  would  not  reproach  me  because 
my  knife  hangs  idle,  had  I  your  Roman  women 
here !  Calpurnius,  be  kind.  From  the  first  morn- 
ing when  I  saw  you  in  the  forest,  shining  in  brass, 
a  god,  there  has  been  no  kingdom,  no  people  for 
me  but  you.  I  have  watched  you,  learnt  from 
you.  Oh !  I  am  of  the  Romans — I'll 

CALPURNIUS:  Each  to  his  own  in  the  end.  That's  the 
law. 

GLEVA:  A  bitter,  cruel  one. 

CALPURNIUS:  Very  likely.  But  it  can't  be  changed. 
So  long  as  the  world  lasts,  centuries  hence,  where- 
ever  soldiers  are,  still  it  will  be  the  law. 

GLEVA:  Soldiers !  Say  soldiers,  and  all  must  be  for- 
given ! 

CALPURNIUS:  Much,  at  all  events,  by  those  with 
understanding.  Hear  what  a  soldier  is.  You 
see  him  strong,  browned  by  the  sun,  flashing  in 
armour,  tramping  the  earth,  a  conqueror — a  god, 
yes,  a  god !  Ask  his  centurion  who  drills  him  hi 
the  barrack  square. 

GLEVA:  But  the  centurion 

CALPURNIUS:  The  centurion's  the  god,   then?    Ask 

me,  his  Captain,  who  tells  him  off.    Am  I  the 

god,  then?    Ask  my  Colonel,  who  tells  me  off. 

Is  it  my  Colonel,  my  General  ?    Ask  the  Emperor 

455 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

In  Rome  who,  for  a  fault,  strips  them  of  their 
command  and  brings  them  home.  Soldiers  are 
men  trained  to  endurance  by  a  hard  discipline, 
cursed,  ridiculed,  punished  like  children  but  with  a 
man's  punishments,  so  that  when  the  great  ordeal 
comes  they  may  move,  fight,  die,  like  a  machine. 
The  soldier!  He  suffers  discomfort,  burns  in 
the  desert,  freezes  in  the  snow  at  another's  orders. 
He  has  no  liberty,  he  must  not  argue,  he  must  not 
answer;  and  he  gets  an  obol  a  day,  and  in  the  end 
— in  the  end,  a  man,  he  gives  his  life  without  com- 
plaint, without  faltering,  gladly  as  a  mere  trifle 
in  the  business  of  the  day,  so  that  his  country 
may  endure.  And  what's  his  reward?  What 
does  he  get?  A  woman's  smile  in  his  hour  of  fur- 
lough. That's  his  reward.  He  takes  it.  Blame 
him  who  will.  The  woman  thinks  him  a  god, 
and  he  does  not  tell  her  of  the  barrack  square. 
Good  luck  to  him  and  her,  I  say.  But  at  the  last, 
there's  the  long  parting,  just  as  you  and  I  part  in 
the  forest  of  Anderida  to-night.  Other  soldiers 
will  say  good-bye  here  on  this  spot  to  other  women 
in  centuries  from  now.  Their  trouble  will  be 
heavy,  my  dear,  but  they'll  obey  the  soldier's  law. 

GLEVA:  Very  well,  then!  Each  to  his  own!  I,  too. 
will  obey  that  law.  (She  confronts  him,  erect  and 
strong.) 

CALPURNIUS:  You  will?    (Doubtfully.) 

456 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

GLEVA:  To  the  letter.    To  the  very  last  letter.    I'll 

i  gather  my  men.  There  shall  be  no  more  Romans 
in  Anderida.  There  shall  be  only  stubble  In  the 
fields  where  the  scythes  of  my  chariots  have  run. 

CALPURNIUS:  Silence!     (Sternly.} 

GLEVA:  I  learn  my  lesson  from  my  Lord  Calpurnius. 
Why  should  my  teacher  blame  me  if  I  learn  it 
thoroughly  ? 

CALPURNIUS:  Gleva,  you  cannot  conquer  Rome.  (He 
speaks  gently.  She  stands  stubbornly.)  How  shall 
I  prove  it  to  you — you  who  know  only  one  wild 
corner  of  Britain !  (Thinks.)  There  is  that  road 
where  the  soldiers  march.  You  know — how 
much  of  it  ? — a  few  miles  where  it  passes  through 
the  forest.  That's  all.  But  it  runs  to  the  Wall 
in  the  north. 

GLEVA  (scornfully) :  Is  there  a  Wall  ? 

CALPURNIUS:  Is  there  a  Wall ?  Ye  gods!  I  kept  my 
watch  upon  it  through  a  winter  under  the  coldest 
stars  that  ever  made  a  night  unfriendly.  I  freeze 
now  when  I  think  of  it.  Yes,  there's  a  Wall  in  the 
north,  and  that  road  runs  to  it;  and  in  the  south, 
it  does  not  end  at  Regnum. 

GLEVA:  Doesn't  it?    Wonderful  road ! 

CALPURNIUS:  Yes,  wonderful  road.    For  on  the  other 

side  at  the  very  edge  of  the  sea  in  Gaul  it  lives 

again — yes,  that's  the  word — the  great  road  lives 

and  runs  straight  as  a  ruled  line  to  Rome.    For 

457 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

forty  days  you  drive,  inns  by  the  road-side,  post 
horses  ready  and  a  cloud  of  traffic,  merchants  on 
business,  governors  on  leave,  pedlars,  musicians 
and  actors  for  the  fairs,  students  for  the  universi- 
ties, Jews,  explorers,  soldiers,  pack-horses  and 
waggons,  gigs  and  litters.  Oh,  if  I  could  make 
you  see  it — always  on  each  side  the  shade  of  trees, 
until  on  its  seven  hills  springs  Rome.  Nor  does 
the  road  end  there. 

GLEVA:  This  same  road?  (Her  scorn  has  gone.  She 
speaks  doubtfully.) 

CALPURNIUS:  This  same  road  which  runs  by  the  brook 
down  here  in  the  forest.  (Pointing  L.)  It  crosses 
Rome  and  goes  straight  to  the  sea  again — again 
beyond  the  sea  it  turns  and  strikes  to  Jerusalem 
four  thousand  miles  from  where  we  stand  to-night. 
Rome  made  it.  Rome  guards  it,  and  where  it  runs 
Rome  rules.  You  cannot  conquer  Rome — until 
the  road's  destroyed. 

GLEVA:  I  will  destroy  it. 

CALPUKNIUS:  Only  Rome  can  destroy  it.  (A  pause.) 
Gleva,  let  what  I  say  sink  deep  into  your  heart. 
A  minute  ago  I  sneered  at  the  road.  I  blas- 
phemed. The  roads  are  my  people's  work. 
While  it  builds  roads,  it's  Rome,  it's  the  Uncon- 
querable. But  when  there  are  no  new  roads 
in  the  making  and  the  weeds  sprout  between  the 
pavements  of  the  old  ones,  then  your  moment's 
458 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

coming.  When  the  slabs  are  broken  and  no  com- 
pany marches  down  from  the  hill  to  mend  them, 
it  has  come.  Launch  your  chariots  then,  Gleva ! 
Rome's  day  is  over,  her  hand  tired.  She  has 
grown  easy  and  forgotten.  But  while  Rome 
does  Rome's  appointed  work,  beware  of  her! 
Not  while  the  road  runs  straight  from  Regnum 
to  the  Wall,  shall  you  or  any  of  you  prevail. 
GLEVA  (looking  inscrutably.}  No,  I  cannot  conquer 
Rome. 

[A  moment's  pause.] 
CALPURNIUS:  Listen! 

GLEVA:  The  sound  upon  the  road  has  ceased. 
CALPURNIUS:  There  are  no  longer  men  marching. 
GLEVA:  All  have  gone  over  the  hill  to  the  sea. 
CALPURNIUS:  Yes.    There's  a  freshness  in  the  air,  a 

breath  of  wind.    The  morning  comes 

GLEVA:  I  cannot  conquer  Rome. 

[A  trumpet  rings  out  clear  from  the  top  of  the 
hill.     The    morning    is    beginning   to    break. 
There  is  the  strange  light  which  comes  when 
moonlight  and  the  dawn  meet.] 
CALPURNIUS:  The  reveille!    (He  turns  to  her.) 

GLEVA:  And 

CALPURNIUS  (nods) :  My  summons.    Gleva ! 

PLEVA:  My  Lord  will  bid  farewell  to  his  slaves.     (She 

calls  aloud):  Bran,  Caransius. 

CALPURNIUS:  Oh,  before  they  come!    (He  holds  out 

459 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

his  arms  to  her.)  Gleva!  (She  comes  slowly  into 
his  embrace.)  I  shall  remember  this  night.  Some 
of  our  poets  say  that  we  are  born  again  in  another 
age.  So  may  it  be  with  us !  We  shall  grow  old 
and  die,  you  here,  I  where  my  Emperor  shall  send 
me.  May  we  be  born  again,  love  again,  under  a 
happier  star. 

[He  kisses  her,  she  clings  to  him.    Behind  enter 
Bran,  Caransius.     They  approach  carefully.] 
But  now  there's  Rome  in  front  of  me. 

[He  tries  to  draw  away  from  her.    She  clings 
about  his  neck.] 
And  I  must  go. 

GLEVA:  Not  yet,  my  Lord — Calpurnius. 
CALPURNIUS:  Farewell!    and  the  Gods  prosper  you. 
(He  is  seized  from  behind  on  a  gesture  from  Gleva. 
She  utters  a  cry.) 
GLEVA:  Do  him  no  hurt!    Yet  hold  him  safe.    (They 

bind  him.    Calpurnius  struggles.) 
CALPURNIUS:  Help!    Romans,  help  I 

[The  two  men  gag  him.] 
GLEVA:  Do  him  no  hurt! 

[They  lay  him  on  the  bank.  Gleva  goes  to  him.] 
No,  I  cannot  conquer  Rome,  but  one  Roman — yes. 
You  taught  me,  Calpurnius,  the  lesson  of  the  road. 
I  thank  you.  I  learn  another  lesson.  (She  is 
speaking  very  gently.)  On  that  long,  crowded  way 
from  the  edge  of  Gaul  to  Rome  many  a  soldier  of 
460 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

your  legion  will  be  lost — lost  and  remain  unheard 
of.  Calpurnius,  you  shall  stay  with  me,  reign 
with  me,  over  me.  You  shall  forget  Rome. 

[Once  more  the  trumpet  sounds  only  more 
faintly.  Calpurnius  utters  a  stifled  groan.  The 
morning  broadens.  A  cracking  of  bushes  is 
heard.  From  the  right  enters  third  attendant 
excitedly.] 

ATTENDANT:  Mistress!    Mistress! 
GLEVA:  Well? 

[She  turns,  stands  between  Calpurnius  and 
attendants,  e.  g. : 

BRAN. 

THIRD  ATTENDANT.        GLEVA.       CALPURNIUS. 
CARANSIUS.] 

[Footlights.] 
ATTENDANT:  They  have  gone!    The  hill  is  empty; 

the  camp  is  scattered. 

GLEVA:  They  march  to  the  coast.    The  Valeria  Vic- 
trix. 

[A  movement  from  Calpurnius,  who  is  working 
his  hands  free.] 

THIRD  ATTENDANT:  They  are  putting  out  to  sea.    The 
harbour's  black  with  ships.    Some  have  reached 
the  open  water. 
GLEVA:  All  have  gone. 

THIRD  ATTENDANT:  All.    Already  there's  a  wolf  in 
the  camp  on  the  hill. 

461 


UNDER  BIGNOR  HILL 

CALPURNIUS  (freeing  his  hands  and  mouth,  plucks  out 
his  sword.    He  buries  it  in  his  heart.) 
Rome !    Rome !     (In  a  whisper.) 

[Gleva  turns  and  sees  Calpurnius  dead.  She 
stands  motionless.  Then  she  waves  her  atten- 
dants away.  They  go  silently.  Gleva  seats 
herself  by  Calpurnius's  side.  She  runs  her 
hand  over  his  hair.] 
GLEVA  (with  a  sob) :  My  Lord  Calpurnius ! 

[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  SLOWLY.] 


462 


41554 


A     000  671  732     6 


